A Lifetime With You
by Speiredonia Obscura
Summary: Hermione Granger is reborn in Tom Riddle's lifetime to prevent the future from happening. As she lives her second life, she tries to prevent young Riddle's traumatic experiences instead of killing Voldemort at his most vulnerable and innocent state. However, although she does her best to change the past, there are inevitable events. Such as, falling in love.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?

.

 **The Owls**

'Neath their black yews in solemn state  
The owls are sitting in a row  
Like foreign gods; and even so  
Blink their red eyes; they meditate.

Quite motionless they hold them thus  
Until at last the day is done,  
And, driving down the slanting sun,  
The sad night is victorious.

They teach the wise who gives them ear  
That in this world he most should fear  
All things which loud or restless be.

Who, dazzled by a passing shade,  
Follows it, never will be free  
Till the dread penalty be paid.

— Jack Collings Squire, _Poems and Baudelaire Flowers_ (London: The New Age Press, Ltd, 1909)

* * *

 _ **November 19, 1998. Hogwarts.**_

" _You called for me, Headmaster?" I said as respectfully as I could, disrupting Dumbledore's deep gaze on the embers of a dying fire._

" _Ah yes, Miss Granger. Please, have a seat." He answered warmly, gesturing at a comfortable looking couch in front of his large desk._

" _Lemon drop?" He offered his jar of favorite sweets, sharing a small smile._

 _I smile back, amused that his habit of offering candy still persists._

" _No thank you. I had a big supper." I explained, truly satisfied with this evening's dinner._

 _Usually, after offering his jar, he would take a piece of candy for himself. But at that time, he didn't take a piece. Instead, he brought the jar on its usual place and appeared to be losing himself to another trace._

" _Is something wrong, sir?" I asked, concerned that the Headmaster is not himself._

" _Oh..so sorry. I'm just a bit nervous of the conversation we will be having." He told me._

 _Dumbledore was never anxious when it comes to conversation, so his statement perturbed me quite a bit. Curious, I decided to question his need to be troubled by this talk that we had._

" _Forgive me for saying that, I find it hard to believe you would be nervous to have a talk with someone as ordinary as me." I said while laughing lightly._

" _You're quite the opposite, Miss Granger. Being the brightest witch of our age makes you extraordinary."_

 _I was never fond of the title: Brightest witch of my age. It was not a role that I have competed for. I simply followed my personal interest on academics. Anyone who have such an interest would have such a title. Me, as the brightest witch of our age, was simply stated in the newspapers countless of times._

 _And then, for some odd reason, it stuck._

" _I'm just a simple girl who loves knowledge. Hardly an accomplishment." I replied._

" _Miss Granger, nothing about you would be simple. Remember that." Dumbledore answered like the sage that he is, eyes twinkling with wisdom and wit which can only be known by age._

 _But then he appeared more serious, like he is about to say words I must memorize like a book._

" _In fact, every individual is naturally complicated. For without our complications, we lose our humanity." He replied, his eyes sharing something I thought he would never express._

 _For the first time since I have ever been around the Headmaster, I sense apprehension._

" _Miss Granger, do you believe that an individual is born to be completely evil?"_

" _No, Sir. I believe that an individual can choose from what is right and what is wrong." I answered._

 _He looked at me sadly, gazing down for a moment as if to grieve on my response. And then, having accepted my statement, he faced me again with more resolve._

" _It appears that we will be having a long evening of discussion. Are you sure you do not want a piece of candy?" He asked me, offering his jar once again._

* * *

There is a significant difference between darkness and light, just as water and air are considered polar opposites. However, although different in structure, such antecedents cannot exist without the other. In fact, factors that differ from one another have similarities that keep them linked if not adjacent.

Darkness cannot be expressed without light; water is half composed of oxygen.

Opposites are not opposite. Variances do not exist.

There is only intensity of differences at the edges of existence. And the rest are grey matter.

An intensity of darkness and an intensity of light. And then, grey.

An intensity of water and an intensity of air. And then, grey.

Grey like the twilight.

Grey like the storm.

Most aspects of life lie in the nature of grey. Even individuals.

An individual who resides in the intensities, away from each other, such are the differences.

A difference that can be driven with the grey and have the small chance to converge.

And in that small chance, is a miracle.

That difference is regarded as "Polar Opposites".

But like I said, opposites do not exist.

At least, I would like to think so.

I would like to hope, that somehow a miracle can happen.

It is the only chance I can look forward to now.

Ten minutes has already passed by since he was struck by the two words that would surely bring death. After ten minutes, Harry still had no pulse. Five..ten seconds past..Nothing. Exhausted, I bring my lips to his and feverishly try to push air into his lungs for the last time. I bring my ear to rest on his chest, despite knowing that it was now hopeless. Nothing. Not a heartbeat.

Harry Potter has died and left me here on this earth.

In those ten minutes, chaos began.

Seconds after Harry collapsed into the ground with a blank look on his face, the heightened attention of the crowd disintegrated into pure anarchy. The last of the resistance were lost, running in every direction, unaware whether they should still fight or run. I didn't bother to direct them on what to do. Nobody truly knows what to do at this point. Our only chance of defeating Voldemort has died in front of us, any goals or dreams have been purged along with him.

The death eaters were not doing their best to catch the rogues, more focused on their delight of finally achieving their success. Of course, why wouldn't the death eaters delight in their success? Most of them did so by watching anxiously as I tried to bring Harry back, thinking that The Boy Who Lived might actually live another day. They might have thought that catching the resistance can wait; watching me, the mudblood, try to revive Potter is far more intriguing. They were so engrossed in my attempt to bring Harry back to life that they didn't bother to accompany their Master as he laughs in victory.

In those ten minutes, Voldemort laughed and laughed.

And laughed. He is yet to cease with his laughing.

I hug Harry briefly before I turned him into ashes, cremating him before any of the vultures would drag Harry's body and use it as a prop for their due celebration. I watch the ashes. I watch as some of the glowing ashes float high to the dark grey sky. If Luna was still around, she might have described Harry's remains as fireflies under moonlight.

No. Luna might have described the ash in a more eccentric manner. I just don't have her words to describe it. Nevertheless, both of us would agree that such a sight is beautifully sad.

Having mourned my best friend long enough, I turn to face the monster across from me. I am surprised that no death eater has yet to strike a spell. I assume that they have saved me for the dark lord to kill. They didn't even give repercussions when I turned Harry into ash.

And so, I slowly make my way to their master, keeping my eyes on him as he revels in his newfound glory. As I make my way, his laughter still persists. It is as if he is driven with madness, his insanity not enough to express his appreciation to this day. Even when I am standing in front of him, he continues to laugh, not giving me a glance as he went on and on and on. He kept his eyes closed, drunk with his accomplishment. Eventually though, he had to give Harry's remains a final look. And similar to what I have done, he gazed as the ashes float to the hopeless stormy sky.

He continues to laugh, but his laughter started to sound different.

His laughter becomes hollow, less intrigued by his triumph. He stares at the last of Harry's dying embers with what can only be described as sentimentality.

Voldemort looks sentimental. How is that possible? Why show such a faint but existing form of grief?

I purse my lip and sigh, recalling what a wise old man once told me. Dumbledore stated that everyone was born innocent. Every single one. Even Voldemort.

But the person..the thing in front of me can't be regarded as a human being. A monster yes, but not a man. Voldemort has the eyes of a demon and the skin of a corpse. He has sins that can never be forgiven, never to be understood. Nothing about him is innocent. There is nothing beyond those blood red eyes but murder and destruction. And yet. For a moment, his face has shown emotions I did not know he could wield.

For a short amount of time, he shared confusion and disappointment.

Voldemort looked lost. His eyes are aimless. He appears to be unsure as to what to do next.

For the briefest time, he appeared human.

Eventually though, he came to his senses and look at me straight in the eye with a gruesome smirk slowly growing on his lipless mouth. I did not share his disgust on the fact that we are standing in front of each other. I was more intrigued on the idea that he might have a soul. Moreover, he had a soul. But now, that soul has been reduced into a seemingly nonexistent shard. At one point of Voldemort's life, his soul was more whole than the sorry excuse that it is in now.

I wonder what Voldemort looks like, back when his soul was whole. Back when he still had a conscience. Back when he used to believe in morals and consequences. Back when Tom Riddle still believed in something like love. At least, I would like to think so.

I would like to hope, that somehow a miracle can happen.

It is the only chance I can look forward to now.

"Hermione Granger." He recognizes me with his chin up high and his shoulders straight.

His small hint of emotion a few seconds ago is now hidden entirely.

I didn't bother to return his acknowledgement. Instead, I query.

"You know me?" I ask, keeping myself from making a trembling voice.

"Of course, one of Harry's most loyal allies." He tells me indulgently.

"I am not one of his allies; allies expect something in return for their loyalty. Harry is my friend. I won't bother to define what a friend is, since you will never understand the concept of friendship." I reply.

A death eater comments with a snort, finding my clarification to be naïve.

"Of course, you _**were**_ one of Harry's friends." Voldemort tells me with a hint of spite.

The death eaters are furious now; some of them are edging towards me. Ready to strike.

A shrill scream echoes from one of the civilians who are trying to run away.

"Shouldn't you be running away, darling?" He asks me.

In response, I take another step closer. The death eaters were about to make a move, but the monster in front of me gestures them to be at ease. Voldemort considers himself invulnerable now.

"I don't have it in me to run away. I'd rather be here, right in front of you." I answer.

"Really now? Would you prefer that I administer your death than a perfect stranger?" He replies, his long fingers grasping the elder wand tightly.

"That would be quite convenient, but I hardly see you more than a stranger."

"Well in that case, I hope it doesn't bother you that a stranger such as myself will kill you." He states, getting bored of our conversation, raising his wand to my face.

"It does bother me actually. I would rather you know me first before you try. But perhaps, we'll have the opportunity to know each other better." I tell him, giving the best rueful smile that I could muster before I create a strong barrier around the both of us.

When the barrier was set, the death eaters could not reach us. They tried though, despite themselves. And they fail relentlessly, regardless of their scathing spells and clanging fists. Although I am confident with my casting of the barrier, I know that the barrier will not last long, I have to move quickly.

I didn't give him a chance to comment on my poor choice of making a barrier. I acted as swiftly as possible, grabbing his hand without caring of the possible repercussions and then taking out the time turner that is tied to my neck. Without batting an eye, I strike the time turner to the ground.

The time turner breaks into a million pieces, enveloping us into a hurricane of what I consider to be the most fine and beautiful sand that I have ever seen. And as we spiral into oblivion, I could not help but glance at his way and look at his abnormal disfigured face, wanting to know his reaction.

Voldemort however, was not as angry as I thought he would be.

He looked more shocked than anything else, perturbed at his unforeseen situation. And then, for some odd reason, he looks at peace after realizing that I have condemned him to a fate he is yet to learn.

I thought he would show anger, or at least despair. But I saw his face express what can only be relief. Before both of us were consumed by the sand of the time turner, before the place in which we existed become nothing but hollow darkness, Voldemort looked relieved. He looked at peace.

Why does he look relieved despite knowing that his plans have been ruined?

That, perhaps, would be the only question I will never have the answer to.

I assume that for a little while, for one final moment in his life, Tom Riddle might have regained his humanity, finding his consciousness. Or maybe, he feels relieved because everything ends and nothing will be left, completely satisfied to be part of what may be oblivion of everything that life stands for.

Either way, both of us will soon succumb to the infinite nothingness of time and space.

Never to look back to the past, present, and the future.

At least, not in this lifetime.

* * *

" _Miss Granger, I am aware that you have a time turner." The Headmaster stated._

" _How…how do you know that?" I asked, curious as to how he got that information._

" _I have my ways." He answered, not wanting to divulge his sources._

" _If I admit to having such a device..are you going to take it from me?"_

" _No, of course not. If you have a time turner, it is yours to keep. Although knowing how you were able to get such a rare apparatus would be quite a story."_

" _Yes..it is quite a story." I replied, hinting that I do have a time turner but not keen to sharing the story._

" _Well, if you don't mind, I would like to add more to the story."_

" _Sure..of course." I answered, unsure where this conversation is leading._

" _As you know, Miss Granger, Time turners are prohibited. Do you know why?"_

" _Time travel can cause catastrophic consequences."_

" _Correct. Travelling to the past, whether measured by a second or a decade, can lead to unwanted circumstances."_

 _There was nothing wrong with what he had stated, except for something I may have misheard._

" _But professor, Time turners cannot return a decade. They were only designed to go back in hours or weeks, not years." I questioned, scrunching my brows and crossing my forehead._

" _You were misinformed, my dear. You see, time turners do not bring us back in time. Time turners are merely vessels that enable us to go to particular areas at the span of time."_

" _Time turners are..merely vessels?" I repeated his words, trying to conceptualize his description._

" _Yes, and from such vessels reside something that can alter more than past events. Within a Time Turner is an opportunity to change the past in decades, and even centuries."_

 _Perplexed yet not lost to his explanation, I remain quiet in order for him to further explain._

" _What do you think of time? Does time have weaknesses?" Dumbledore asked._

 _I think about his question. Usually I already have answers. But for now, like the many conversations I had with the Headmaster, I need to pause and really think._

" _Although time affects us, it does not define an individual or an event. The limitation of time is that it defines an end of it all, but does not comprehend the means of an end."_

" _Therefore, what do you think would be infinite and more powerful than time?"_

 _Infinite and more powerful than time..well now, that was a question that required far more than my usual moment of rumination._

 _I smirked, amused that I am given quite a challenge._

" _Sir, may I have a moment with my thoughts? It won't take too long." I replied._

" _All the time in the world, Miss Granger." The Headmaster replied with a smile._

 **Les Hiboux**

Sous les ifs noirs qui les abritent  
Les hiboux se tiennent rangés  
Ainsi que des dieux étrangers  
Dardant leur oeil rouge. Ils méditent.

Sans remuer ils se tiendront  
Jusqu'à l'heure mélancolique  
Où, poussant le soleil oblique,  
Les ténèbres s'établiront.

Leur attitude au sage enseigne  
Qu'il faut en ce monde qu'il craigne  
Le tumulte et le mouvement;

L'homme ivre d'une ombre qui passe  
Porte toujours le châtiment  
D'avoir voulu changer de place.

— _Charles Baudelaire_ ( _/poem/156)_


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?

.

" _Existence. A state of being." I answered carefully, like saying the words is an arduous but relieving process._

" _What was that my dear?" Dumbledore asked._

" _To exist. To exist is more infinite and powerful than time." I clarified, more sure of my answer._

" _Why do you say so?"_

" _Because to exist is the beginning of it all. Time on the other hand, is the end of what began. Without existence, time would be void. Time is real, because of existence." I explained avidly._

 _Dumbledore adjusted his glasses, a sign that I have answered his question._

" _Your title truly reflects you, Miss Granger. You are correct, as usual." The Headmaster responded._

" _I'm not always right, sir. I may have answered your question, but I still have no idea why I am here." I told him, a little impatient to know his reasons for this discussion._

" _As you have stated, existence is greater than time. And existence is the power that resides in a Time Turner." Dumbledore effortlessly told me, like it was normal for him to share this outstanding information._

" _Existence..resides in a Time Turner?" I questioned, finding it hard to believe that existence, a state of being, would actually physically reside on a trinket._

" _Without existence, Time Turners cannot bring us back to past events. Hence, such is the importance of existence to be the essence of such devices." Dumbledore further explained._

 _Existence is the key on how Time turners work? Existence is the essence of a Time turner?_

 _Thankfully Dumbledore refrains from adding more to the information that I have to absorb._

 _Scrutinizing what he stated to me, I find such an idea to be quite difficult to believe. Outrageous really._

 _Even though the trinket is a Time Turner, existence is not something you can just store in an object._

 _Such a phenomenon is impossible._

 _I know, nothing is impossible in the wizarding world._

 _But existence..that is life itself. Existence is..the manipulation of life._

* * *

" _Sir, are you saying that a Time turner holds power that has greater potential than the crossing of time and space? And this..greater power, is..Existence?"_

" _Precisely." The Headmaster simply answered, standing from his seat to have a better look at the view from the outside._

" _How is possible Sir? How can…existence be controlled and expelled modestly from a Time Turner?"_

" _We exist, Miss Granger. Our bodies expel existence as we begin and end every day in our lives. Even in inanimate objects, existence is confirmed by how that inanimate object was made. Therefore, existence to have been stored in a Time Turner is manageable yet difficult to accomplish." He stated, watching the Phoenix that is perched nearby, noticing that the bird has bowed its noble head in order to sleep._

 _The Phoenix is a fascinating creature, and even though I have seen it many times, I have yet to see the bird's transformation of dying and then living once more. Harry has seen it for himself, how a Phoenix dies and is born. Harry said that the Phoenix burned in fire, and then is born again from the ashes._

 _Burned in fire..to live once more._

 _As if we were thinking the same thing, I looked at Dumbledore to find him looking back as well._

" _For existence to be instilled in an object is not an easy feat. Like all incredible and ghastly relics of the wizarding world, such great power is created with the cost of tremendous sacrifice." The Headmaster explained, answering my question even though I did not have to verbally state it._

 _Throughout my research on Time Turners, the origin of such objects was not properly stated. I went through hundreds of books in the library, sneaking into the restricted section repeatedly in order to know more of the Time Turner that I possess, but I always get vague information on how they exist._

 _I have read many books on relics, and only now did I learn of the possibility that the origin of Time Turners would have the similar process of how relics are created._

 _The answer is so simple. I am actually disappointed at myself for not realizing any sooner._

 _I guess, having my own Time Turner which I have used like it is a simple tool, I find it difficult to associate such an object as a relic that is created by means of taking the life of another human being._

 _For Time Turners to be relics is logical. After all, Existence is life._

When I opened my eyes, I saw the slow motions of what appears to be wooden figures that are tied to a string. The objects are blurry and thus hard to identify. Only when I hear the soft chiming of the objects in front of me, did I realize that I am staring at a toy usually used to calm or sooth babies on a crib.

And then it occurs to me, like the flicker of light that is caused by a distant hovering light bulb.

I am lying on a crib. My body would not have fit perfectly in an infant's bed, let alone a crib; which means that either I am having a nightmare, or my body has shrunk into the size of a baby.

Overwhelmed and panicked, I oddly started to cry. I cried, and true enough, I cried like a newborn child.

Almost instantly, a portly lady entered the room and brought me to her arms, making swaying motions and patting my back. I could tell from the way she handled me that she has done this numerous of times, perhaps too much since her movements lack the gracefulness or timidity of a new mother.

This lady is rather large, and bulky. Although she tries her best not to hurt me, her gruff movements hints that she is strong built and perhaps quite stubborn.

"There there little one. Everything's going to be alright, you're at a warm place. Safe and sound." She pretending I could understand what she is saying. When in truth, I truly can.

I calmed myself, admittedly reassured of safety by the lady who is holding me. I managed to focus on my current observations, the situation that I am in. I find that this woman does not appear to be a person who would hurt me purposely; the place that I am in evokes a caring child-friendly atmosphere.

Pleased that I appear to be in a safe and secure environment, I then focused on the details.

I recall that as this lady was about to take me from the crib, I noticed what appears to be a hat on her head. It is a white hat, white like the color of her clothes. Now that I think about it, the hat looks more like a ribbon. Her clothes, which I feel with my cheek, have the texture of a worn out canvass.

Her clothes feel old from constant use, but white like it was bleached repeatedly. Along with the ribbon on her head, it does not take much to conclude that this lady may be someone employed in order to ensure health and well-being. This stout woman might be a nurse or a care giver of some sort.

My assumptions of my current caretaker is confirmed when another visitor entered. As I am being handled like a frightened small animal, another woman entered the room. Compared to the lady holding me, this lady is thin and shorter than the one carrying me. She is also wearing white and a white ribbon.

"That's a gorgeous one, Miss Merida. We wouldn't have difficulty giving her away." The newcomer comments as she gazes at me with an impressed look, stating a clue about where I am located.

Based from the thin lady's emotionless suggestion to 'give me away', and from the unsurprised stance of the stout one who carries me, I may be at an orphanage.

"I sure hope so. God knows I don't want her here for too long." The fat lady, who I learn is named Merida, comments.

"She's a bit too young, don't you think?"

"Her mother died giving birth to her, her father died in the war. No family has claimed her." Merida answers with a hint of empathy.

"That's awful." The thin nurse comments, looking at the watch on her wrist and rubbing her eyes.

"Let's hope she grows to be as angelic as she is now, that way she would be gone as soon as possible." Merida states before bringing me back down to the crib, seeing as I stopped crying.

"We best get going; our shift will start again in a few hours." The thin lady tells Merida, disappointing my expectations for more information.

"Alright, you go on right ahead. I'll just tuck her in." Merida replies, already pulling a small blanket over me and then folding the edges so my body is well covered from the cold.

"Get big and strong, little girl. And then, you would be lovely enough to leave St. Agatha." The stout lady tells me like she has a personal vendetta for this person called, 'St. Agatha'.

Before she leaves, she turns off the lights, leaving me in the darkness wherein I couldn't see the hovering objects but I could still hear the soft chiming movements of the toy above my crib. I take this time to think about what happened to me, where I could be currently, and how did I get here.

The only facts that I have gathered so far, based on my interaction with the two women, is that I have the body of an infant, I am at an orphanage or residence for children, and I have been categorized as a new orphan of this facility due to the recent death of my mother who I will never know or meet.

After going through dozens of stocked knowledge and ruminating on theories, I can honestly assume that the Time Turner worked, but in ways that I am yet to decipher. I still have more questions that need answers, such as the reason why I was sent to this particular place in an infant's body.

Feeling the temptation to sleep, I decided to think about my situation in another day. For now, I am safe in this room and I need the rest. I still have a lot of adjusting to do, and I can get my answers as I go throughout my adjustments. Besides, by the looks of it, I have plenty of time to answer my questions.

* * *

" _Existence is a higher power, complicated but with extravagant potential. Time turners however, restrict existence in order to simply bring us back to our past."_

" _Alright..okay..so the essence of Time Turners is Existence. And Existence is far greater than the vessel that it resides. But Sir, what is the importance of knowing the essence of a Time Turner?" I finally asked._

 _Dumbledore chose not to answer me right away, gazing at wall of glass that was painstakingly stained and adorned with flowers at the edges._

" _Existence is so powerful, so great; so much so that without the control of a Time Turner, Existence may enable an individual to live at another era or period of history." The Headmaster replied like he was simply stating an idea that crossed his mind which may or may not answer my question._

" _Of course. If Existence is as great as it is, crossing decades is possible." I added, considering his peculiar suggestion._

" _Do you agree, Miss Granger?"_

" _I beg your pardon?"_

" _Do you agree that Existence can bring an individual back to an early time? Far longer than a day or a week? More so than years?" He questions as he turns from his position and walks towards me._

 _Before I could even answer, he adds another question._

" _Do you believe that Existence, which resides in the Time Turner that you own, has the potential to make you live an entire life in another point of history?" He asks with a serious voice, looming from the side of the seat that I am in._

" _Sir..why are telling me this?" I ask in return, refusing to answer his string of questions due to my growing frustration on the fact that he has yet to reveal the relevance of our discussion._

 _Having noticed my impatience, he returns to his seat and bring one sleeved arm to rest on his desk while his other hand combs through his long white beard. He looks at me like he is solving a puzzle, perhaps trying to figure out how to give an explanation. After a short while, he brings both of his elbows to his desk and linked his hands in a manner that Ron would do when he is about to make a move in chess._

" _When the opportunity presents itself Miss Granger, I want you to use your Time Turner for a different purpose than simply changing moments of time."_

" _What do you mean, Sir?" I ask the Headmaster, despite having a twinge of growing awareness on what he is requesting from me, an awareness that is slowly scratching my gut like an ulcer._

" _If we lose the war, I want you to break your Time Turner to change our fate."_


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?

.

" _If we lose the war, you want me to use the Existence within my Time Turner?"_

" _Yes." Dumbledore replied._

" _By breaking my Time Turner, I would use the power of existence to go to an earlier period of history in order to prevent the war?"_

" _Indeed, that is exactly what I want you to do." The Headmaster answered._

" _You want me to destroy the Time Turner..only when we lose the war?"_

" _Exactly." He responded with a slight bow of his head, nodding in agreement._

 _I combed my hair with a trembling hand, trying to comb strands of hair away from my face._

" _Sir, are you losing faith in Harry?" I asked with a hint of irritation showing from my voice._

" _No, not at all. The faith I have for Harry would never waver, not even in dire circumstances. I know that Harry will do his best to win the war." The Headmaster states this with confidence._

" _But you are not confident about how the war will end?"_

 _He did not reply right away, sighing deeply and looking down at nothing in particular._

" _None of us are sure about how this war will end. Even with the prophecy, fate is not a permanent conclusion that we can believe." He looks at me directly in the eyes. "I know you may be losing confidence in me now, Miss Granger. But I also know that you are a practical realistic young lady, you do not like taking chances."_

 _I bit my lip to keep me from showing my agreement to his correct opinion of myself._

 _Dumbledore was right, I do hate taking chances._

 _Even though I believe in my capabilities, in my friends, and in the Order of the Phoenix; although I believe that Harry can win over Voldemort, I have to admit that there is still a chance that Harry will lose._

 _Despite of our beliefs, there is still a chance that we may lose the war._

" _If I agree..what time period should I be sent to?" I ask._

" _You must go to the time when Tom Riddle was still a child."_

" _And why must I do that?"_

" _To save him, of course. To keep him from being that man that he is now." Dumbledore tells me, so sure that I would keep Voldemort alive instead of killing him in a state where he is most vulnerable._

* * *

"Open wide, Mina-deary." The thin nurse, named Dorothy, instructs. She makes funny faces, trying to entertain me enough in order for me to open my mouth. Merida, the first person I saw since I arrived, holds a small spoonful of wheat in front of me.

I look away at the two nurses, not interested in eating the same food that I ate yesterday.

"Come on, Mina. Eat your breakfast, we don't have all day." Merida impatiently states, poking my cheek with the spoon she is holding. Grudgingly accepting the fact that I would not be given a different meal, I open my mouth and let the nurse shove the soft food. The wheat tastes like soggy old bread.

In this life, my name is Mina. I was named after a character from a story that one of the nurses are fond of. I felt awful when they decided to call me Mina. I didn't want such an unoriginal name from a story I do not know or have heard of. But I should be grateful that I was not given a more horrid designation.

As difficult as it is for me not to be called by my real name, like this new body, I have to get used to a name that has no deep sentimental meaning.

For the first few months of my new life, it was daunting to accept the fact that I was being carried around constantly and being spoon-fed when I would rather feed myself. But I had to accept that my body does not have the capacity to self-sustain, eventually I will be able to be more independent.

Until then, I have to withstand the utter humiliation of babyhood.

"That's a good girl! Now let's go give you a bath, shall we?" Merida asks me, despite the fact that I would not have a choice but follow her.

Tossed slightly like a rag doll, we went down a flight of stairs and into a large bathroom. Two kids were already using the tub, but I don't usually take a bath on it anyway. For now, I use a large pot that is as big as the one used by our resident cook when it comes to making large amounts of soup.

"Today is your birthday Mina, which means you're two years old. Since you're older, you should hold your pee better, and kept yourself from drooling on your potential adoptive parents." The large lady advises me as she lowers my body into warm water, letting me be enveloped by foamy soap.

For the past two years, while growing accustomed with my new body, I have managed to gather a large amount of information which enables me to safely assume that the Time Turner has sent me to my intended destination. Gathering information was difficult at first, but it was not impossible.

I was incredibly grateful that I did some research about Tom's life before I was sent here. After my conversation with Dumbledore, about the possibility of living in Tom Riddle's early time period, I use what little opportunity that I have in order to brush up my knowledge of 60 years of mankind's history.

Apart from updating my history, of both wizard and muggle, I tried my best to learn about Tom Riddle's past as much as possible. With only recorded interviews, newspapers, and the confines of the Hogwarts Library, my gathered data of Voldemort's past life is both limited and slightly ambiguous.

"Alright, all done. Let's get you dressed and bundled up. Morphosis winter is colder than last year." Merida states as she pulled me out of the water after giving my bath, dressing me in dry clothes as fast as possible. Although she tends to be rough as she moves, she shows concern in her hastiness.

According to my research, Tom Riddle lived in an orphanage until he was sixteen years old, at a small muggle town called Morphosis. The town is not well known, insignificant for muggles and only famous to wizards when Voldemort decided to show his reign of terror during his revolution in the 1970s.

Morphosis is a small part of Weltshire, England. Nobody would have thought that Morphosis would be the hometown of a future dictator. In fact, twenty years later, this town will be absorbed by a city called Berkstein. Finding a decent map that identifies Morphosis as a real town, would be very difficult.

Fortunately, I didn't have to search for Morphosis Town when I was sent to England in the 1930s. Much to my uncertain but optimistic expectation of the Time Turner, I am conveniently and now currently residing at Morphosis, where Tom Riddle will be abandoned by his father at a local orphanage.

Dumbledore was right. The Time Turner would exact the goal of the caster.

I didn't know beforehand about the exact orphanage where Tom Riddle resided, I only know that he lived in the oldest orphanage of Morphosis. The Headmaster's explanation about the Time Turner's convenient transport was further confirmed when I found out that I was brought to the exact orphanage where Voldemort was raised. For the first few weeks of my new life, I learned that St. Agatha, which the stout woman name Merida despises, is the oldest of the three orphanages that exist in Morphosis.

My movements were limited to sleeping and eating for the first year. I did what I can to stay updated and knowledgeable about my environment, despite my dispositions. In order to gain further knowledge about my surroundings, l listened to conversations and pay attention to the news that are exchanged.

Although my information of Tom Riddle's past was and is limited, I still am confident that I know more than enough in order to know at what point that I will meet the younger version of Voldemort. By the time I turned two, I managed to know the exact year and place wherein I would meet Tom Riddle.

* * *

" _Miss Granger, are you listening?" Headmaster Dumbledore asks me._

" _I changed my mind Sir, I do believe that one person, that Tom Riddle was born evil." I reply coldly._

" _Now, now. You cannot simply change your personal philosophy in just a moment of thought." The Headmaster point out._

" _Well I did, I did just now. I think that there are individuals who are born to damn this earth. One such individual is a man who is plotting the death of millions. If we lose the war, Tom Riddle should not be given a second chance. He should be killed before the aftermath presents itself."_

 _He sighs and looks out of his window, gazing at some focal point in a sentimental manner._

" _I know this seems a bit...questionable. But believe me when I say that Tom was not the man that he is now. He used to be an innocent young boy, full of hope." Dumbledore states with a tired voice, patiently explaining to me why I should not kill Voldemort's younger self if given the chance to do so._

 _I could feel bile rising from my throat, having heard the Headmaster refer to Voldemort as a 'Innocent young boy, full of hope.' The Tom Riddle that I know is the complete opposite. An innocent young boy would never consider killing a man, much less a hundred, just for the satisfaction of power._

" _With all due respect, even at a time when he could still be reason with, reasoning with Tom Riddle is pointless. Why show mercy to a man who made decisions which he would inevitably perform due to his lack of conscience?" I reply._

" _That is where you are wrong, Miss Granger. Tom Riddle has a conscience, or at least he had one." He answers._

 _I frown at his notion of Voldemort having a conscience. Based on the countless lives he slaughtered without guilt or fear for his soul, Tom Riddle is a complete psychopath._

" _I beg to differ, Sir. I have seen him for myself. That man does not show mercy. He does not have the capacity to empathize with another human being."_

" _But you have not seen him the way I have. You have not seen him when he was younger, back when he was still your age. He had a chance at another life, something completely different from the life he has now. He could have been..different." He tells me, completely ignoring what I have stated._

" _He may not have been a monster then, but he had options. And he chose to be where he is now."_

" _No, Miss Granger. There are times when a person is not presented with options." Dumbledore replies gently, as if what he stated would completely destroy my beliefs._


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?

.

" _What does he look like, Sir? Back when he was still a boy?" I asked, trying to change the subject._

" _He looked like he was void of emotions, as if nothing would make him happy." Dumbledore answered._

 _I scoff, crossing my arms and looking away. "Sounds like a psychopath to me." I replied._

 _The headmaster watches me, attempting to read my show of anger._

" _I saw him when he was twelve years old. That was when his magical abilities started to emerge. By then he had went through traumatic events." He told me while brushing his long white beard with his hand, as if trying to keep himself from being perturbed by his own statement._

" _What sort of traumatic events?" I said, slightly curious._

" _He was abandoned at an orphanage." He answered, but his eyes seem like they are searching for something at the back of his mind, like something else is left unsaid._

" _He was abandoned..as a child? Well, I must say that is quite traumatic. But I don't see how such an event would make him who he is today. Many children get abandoned and yet they have turned out alright. I have yet to hear of a dictator who was abandoned by his parents." I stubbornly reasoned._

" _Being abandoned is not as easy as it seems, Miss Granger. But you are right in all respects. Being abandoned would not make Tom Riddle who he is now. He went through more than that, he went through something you or I could never understand or comprehend." He gravely said._

 _I tried to keep my arrogance in control, but my brow arches and my lip tightened. I could not help it._

" _Remember Miss Granger, although a mishap could be small, a mishap could be considered as a catastrophe for children." He said, knowing that I am not listening to what he told me._

* * *

The year is now 1928.

At exactly 4:00 PM of a sunny afternoon, Tom Riddle will step inside of the orphanage.

Just as I have anticipated, he will arrive on November 15, 1928 at St. Agatha, Morphosis.

I was tense the whole day, looking down windows every moment of every second that I can. As much as I wanted to stay by the door until he arrived, I didn't want to appear odd or peculiar.

"Mrs. Merida! There's a new kid outside!" The older obnoxious child named Robert bellows, having seen Riddle from his side of the classroom.

As soon as Robert pointed the fact, all of the kids started running to our direction. I didn't have to move to get a better look since I was by the window in the first place. Technically, I was the first one who spotted Riddle from the window. But I choose not to alert the class and instead pretend I didn't' care.

I was normally disinterested with newcomers. Something I now slightly regret. If I was more enthusiastic like the rest of the kids, my anticipation of Riddle's arrival would be better covered by common excitement. But it was all for the best, I should and must not show too much interest for the boy.

"Alright, hush hush. We do not know that yet. Go back to your seats." Merida tells us as she tries to comb the unruly hair of Anne who is still too young to understand the use of a hairbrush.

Mrs. Merida is married now, to a proper gentleman who visits from time to time. Judging from her husband's clothes, Merida married a newly appointed soldier. He was at no means battle material, but he is a messenger. Rudolph, Merida's husband, tends to talk quite a lot about his work.

Someone knocks our door and opens it. It is Dorothy, looking a bit out of sorts.

"What is it?" Merida asks, letting go of Anne who now wears her hair in braids.

"Merida, your husband's here with someone. He um..he appears to be accompanying a sickly fellow and a boy. I would deal with the matter myself..but since I know you'd like a talk with Rudolph I figure you might want to do it." Dorothy informs, smiling sheepishly.

"It seems to me that you'd rather I deal with it instead because you wouldn't want to be around the ill person that Rudolph is escorting." The stout lady answers.

"There is nothing I could hide from you." Dorothy sheepishly replies as enters the room to take Mrs. Merida's place.

Mrs. Merida rolls her eyes and told us to behave as she exits the room and left us to be cared by the skinny nurse who is more interested in watching from the windows like the rest of us. When Mrs. Merida reached the entrance of the orphanage, she opened the door and welcomed the guests inside.

"Hello love, is Father Morris around this afternoon?" Mr. Rudolph asks.

"I'm afraid not. He's out to handle a funeral." Mrs. Merida answers.

"Ah, old Jim's funeral. Of course." The short balding man comments as he assists his fellow visitors to enter the orphanage.

Apart from the radio, listening to conversations was how I was able to predict when Tom Riddle would arrive at the orphanage. For example, there are several times when Merida's husband would talk about current events that are happening in his field of work. I consider his information to be valuable.

Knowing that World War Two would occur in a decade, Merida's husband would be a useful asset to getting direct information about what the military forces are going to do at that time.

"Their talk is going to take a while. I'm sure Rudolph's going to share new stories, it's been weeks since the last time he was here." Dorothy mutters to herself.

One day, back when I was four years old, Rudolph informed Merida about the growing suspicion that the local hospital recently admitted a group who are dying from tuberculosis. Mild infectious diseases tend to create paranoia in this small town, therefore the group was escorted by military staff.

Of course no one took Rudolph seriously, and for the military to escort individuals with infectious diseases is actually quite common at this time, but Morphosis would never take in hospital patients that might make the community ill. Having learned from the Spanish Flu, Morphosis disdained infection.

However, due to the proclamation given by King George V in 1928, all hospitals under England are required to admit individuals who have an infectious disease in order to control the spread of such diseases. No hospital can decide whether or not they will admit patients with infection.

"Alright everyone, you'll know if you have a new classmate later. Best get back to your reading." Dorothy tells the class and makes her way to the teacher's table.

Now that I am five years old, I am required to stay at the nursery, disappearing from the nursery would be too drastic. I have to keep my image. I have to stay normal in order to sustain myself in this life. Thus, with much self-control and patience did I wait and wait until he finally arrived at our doorstep.

But when I finally saw his head from the window, when I am finally realizing my deduction as to meeting Tom Riddle, I couldn't help myself. I must know. I must see with my own eyes that Riddle is really standing a few feet away from me. For once, I will break my façade and listen to my reckless whim.

As soon as Dorothy started tending for Julie who peed on the floor once again, I bolted out of the nursery and ran towards the common room where visitors would usually be entertained. It only took me a minute or two, since the nursery and the common room is designated in one floor.

Reaching the common room, I made sure that they couldn't see me. I crawled on my knees until I was able to hide behind the nearby coach. Having made myself invisible, I am able to listen to the conversation. If I am careful not to show my head, I can also see them freely from where I am hiding.

Mrs. Merida and Mr. Rudolph are talking about the latest issue on the Mayor of Morphosis. Something about the Mayor wanting to invest the town's money on creating a horse racing track. Listening to their conversation, I can tell that they would be too distracted to notice my head poking to get a look.

Along with Mrs. Merida and Mr. Rudolph is a tall flimsy man who is well layered with three coats and a fedora hat. The man with the fedora looks like he could collapse any minute, his legs appear to barely sustain him as he stands. His mouth is also covered with a scarf wrapped around his neck.

My hands started to tremble and I break into a cold sweat when Mr. Rudolph refers the man with a fedora hat as Mr. Tom Riddle Sr. When Mr. Riddle is being introduced to Mrs. Merida, Mr. Riddle removes his hat and loosens the scarf that covers his mouth in order to pay respect.

He has dirty blond hair, disheveled from prolonged hat wear. His face is as thin as his body, lacking in fat and color. He has wrinkles that are too early for his assumed age. His eyes are dull green, as if they will soon dissipate like a flickering candle. Dark rings under his eyes suggests that he doesn't get much sleep.

His face is cleanly shaved, but his lips show his illness. His lips are cracked and bluish.

With his lips, Mr. Riddle regards Mrs. Merida with a weak smile.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Merida. Your husband shared a lot about you." Mr. Riddle tells the nurse.

"Good afternoon as well. I hope he shared pleasant things." Mrs. Merida replies, raising a brow at her husband who cheekily smiles.

As they shared formalities, I slowly brought my eyes on the boy who is holding Mr. Riddle's hand tightly.

Unlike his father, who appears rather ordinary despite his ill looking features, the child has an unusual aura around him. The boy effortlessly expresses this aura of which I cannot comprehend easily. His presence feels like a bottomless river, a deep silent appearance that is shimmering yet dangerous.

I have to admit that he is a beautiful child. With his onyx black hair and his pale marble skin, he would stand out from a crowd. Like his father, he needs more weight, but he doesn't have any signs of illness. He has a pointy chin, a small forehead, adequately plump cheeks, and long dark eyelashes.

His eyes, his startling eyes are deep maroon.

Maroon like the color of an aurora on a starry night.

Or maroon like a pool of dried blood.

"And who is this little fellow?" Mrs. Merida asks the sickly man, bending to face the boy in his height.

"This is my son, Tom Riddle Jr. Say hello Tom." The man replies before coughing uncontrollably.

"Hello." The child shyly greets Merida, showing a small smile.

"Forgive me, but may I request a glass of water?" The boy's father asks the nurse.

"Of course, no problem. I'll be right back." The stout lady replies, leaving the room.

As soon as Mrs. Merida left, Tom Riddle Sr. coughs harder and deeper, doing his best to stifle his coughing with his scarf. He hacks what I thought would be phlegm, but instead it was bright red blood. Quickly, before anyone notices the blood he coughed out, he pockets his scarf in one of his coat pockets.

Since the outbreak of the Spanish Flu in 1919, the one and only Morphosis hospital did not take any patients who are diagnosed with infectious diseases. But the hospital started to admit infected patients in 1928 because refraining to do so would be an action of disobedience to King George V.

A tug from the boy takes his father's attention.

The boy appears concerned but does not say a word.

"I'm alright son. Now, would you like to play with that little lady over there?" He says, pointing directly at me.

Surprised that he knew that I was hiding behind the couch, I abruptly stand from where I was crouching. Usually when someone found out that I was sneaking about, and such accounts are rare, I would simply greet them with a mischievous smile. But this time, I react differently. Instead of acting like a typical curious child, I am acting like a statue that is about to break.

I feel like a statue that is about to break in a million pieces, because I was spotted like I was not even trying to hide and now I am about to meet someone I have been waiting for years to confront.

He was reluctant to obey his father, but he miserably looks at me to consider the idea.

Without a word he started to walk towards me.

As he goes to my location, I can hear and feel my heart pounding faster than usual.

Seeing as mere inches away, I now do not feel like a statue.

I feel like I am about to be bitten by a rabid dog and I can't do anything about it.

Unconsciously, my hands started to fold into fists. It is taking everything not to punch the boy until he bleeds. And even if I do loosen my fists, I know that I would do so only to wring the boy's neck. My breathing becomes faster, trying to match the pace of my heart. I try to keep a calm façade, but I can tell that my lips are trembling and I am blinking too much.

He is right in front of me, keeping his disappointed eyes to the ground. Trying to hide his sulking demeanor for being asked to play with me without his own consent. After tapping his shoes a couple times, and noticing that I do not utter a word, he looks up and regards me reluctantly. He looks up, and it was like seconds were hours in order for him to look at me at the eye.

Against the light, his eyes shine like imperial topaz.

Now, I feel like I am about to be burned alive.

"Hi. My name is Tom." He says, trying to be polite despite wanting to rather be with his father.

"Do you like toys?" I manage to blurt out. My question is hardly a decent introduction of myself. But at least I'm acting like a kid.

He nods slowly.

"Follow me." I say, backing up without making my back vulnerable to him.

Usually if I guide children to a location, I hold their hand.

But I..I just can't do it. The idea of holding Riddle's hand is unbearable.

The toy box is only at the opposite side of the common room. I simply have to take a few steps back in order to reach the box. When I did, I grab a heap of toys and drop them on the wooden floor.

"Here, you can play with this." I robotically hand out a toy car from the pile.

"Okay." He says, looking at me like I was a bit strange. But he ignores my odd behavior and decides to sit on the floor and play with the toy I gave him.

Having made himself comfortable in a sitting position, not facing or looking towards me, I could not help myself in imagining my foot stomping on his skull over and over again. To keep me from kicking the boy's lowered and distracted head, I look at the father who is now being entertained by the adults who finally returned from their rendezvous at the kitchen.

"Here you go, Sir." Merida states, arriving with a glass of water.

"Thank you." Tom Riddle Sr. replies, drinking like he was rubbing his throat with sand paper.

Based on obscure publications of Voldermort's father, Tom Sr. will die in a month or two.

Sadly, tuberculosis is not a painless disease.

* * *

" _How do you know?" I asked somewhat rudely, frustrated that he persists on the idea of saving Tom Riddle._

" _What do you mean, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore questioned in return._

 _I sighed deeply, determined to regain my manners._

" _Sir, how do you know that saving Riddle would prevent the war?"_

" _Because I have done it before." He simply replied._

" _Done what before?" I asked._

 _He does not answer. Choosing to let me answer my own question.  
_

 _He waited until my face started to express astonishment._

 _He has done it before._

 _The headmaster travelled back in time..back in decades._

" _This is my second life, Miss Granger." Dumbledore confirmed._

 _And then, everything started to make more sense._


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?

.

" _At what period did you formerly existed?" I inquired, having learned that Dumbledore tested what he intends for me to do if we are unable to defeat the Dark Lord._

" _I was originally born in 1876. But when I travelled back in time, I was reborn to exist in 1890." He answered._

" _Why did you travel back in time?" I asked._

" _Do you recall World War I? The great war of both muggle and wizardry?" The headmaster asked._

 _I nod in response. "It was known as the First Wizarding War in the magical realm." I added._

 _Albus Dumbledore, singlehandedly defeated Grindlewand in the war, preventing Grindlewand from ruling the Wizardry and Muggle world. Both Grindlewand and Voldemort share the same ideals, they considered the wizarding community as the elite while muggles should be treated as slaves._

" _If it wasn't for you Sir, I wouldn't be practicing magic as freely as I am now." I stated._

" _I failed, Miss Granger." Dumbledore tells me, disturbing my thoughts of gratitude._

" _Sir, what do you mean? You won the war. Our history states that – "_

" _I was supposed to prevent the war. In order to prevent the war from happening, I went back in time with the intention to kill Morfin Gaunt." He replies._

" _You were supposed to prevent the war by killing a man named Morfin Gaunt? Who was he?" I question._

" _Back in 1914 of my original lifetime, Morfin Gaunt was the one who lead an army of wizards to pacify the Ministry of Magic and enslave Muggles. And, unlike Grindlewand, he succeeded. He was able to control both Wizardy and Muggle realms, using the elder wand which he inherited from his ancestors."_

" _Morfin Gaunt..Is he a relative of Salazar Slytherin?" I asked while mentally criticizing myself for not recalling quickly enough that Gaunt was a family name of Salazar's descendants._

" _Indeed. Morfin Gaunt was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, a pureblood elitist who was obsessed with his family's beliefs. Unlike slavery, he wanted muggles to be nonexistent, to die out. He was the one who started the war in the first place. It was not Grindlewand. It was Gaunt." He explains._

" _Morfin Gaunt was supposed to start the war, not Grindlewand?" I repeated what he states with a reflective question, getting overwhelmed with the new information._

" _Gaunt was supposed to conquer the world, but I killed him before he could. I thought that killing him would be the answer. That the war would never happen so long as Morfin Gaunt would be dead." He states as he combs his beard, perhaps trying to keep himself calm as he shares his secret._

 _I choose not to react at this point, knowing he would explain himself further._

" _The war happened, Miss Granger. The war happened, even though I killed Morfin Gaunt. I spent another lifetime, erasing my existence from my previous life, only to repeat the war once more." He tells me like his decision of killing Gaunt was still a heavy burden that he carries._

 _._

* * *

His father kept a calm demeanor, all throughout his stay in the orphanage.

Tom Riddle Sr. gave charming smiles, laughed lightly when presented with a joke, contributed to conversation, discreetly coughed as best as he could, and appeared casual as he glances in our direction from time to time. He was acting like an average father who simply went for a stroll with his son.

But I knew better.

I could tell that his smiles would pale in comparison to the smiles he would give if he was healthier. I can hear the faint trembling of his laughter. His input to conversation is very sparse, as if he was trying to save his strength. When he looks our way, he looked like he was about to lose something precious.

Precious. His son was precious to him.

So much so, that he would abandon his son at this orphanage.

He wanted to spare his son from watching him die.

Or at least, that is what I would like to think.

"Well, I guess it is time for us to go." Tom Riddle Sr. tells his fellow adults, buttoning his coat to hint that he was ready to leave.

Rudolph looks at him with concern, which he passes on to Merida who looks just as worried.

"Are you sure, Sir? Are you sure you would like to go?" Mrs. McAllister asks the sickly man, having a hidden message behind her words. She wanted to know if the man was sure that leaving his son would be the best decision he could make, she wanted to know if he would regret such a decision.

"Yes, I'm sure. Better I go before it would be too late." Tom Riddle Sr. replies, understanding Mrs. Merida's question, explaining by stating that he should leave before it would be difficult to do so.

"Of course." Merida replies solemnly, giving the boy a pitying look.

Having heard his father say that they would leave, the son drops the toy train he was holding and goes to his father's side, completely ignoring the fact that I was trying to play with him only moments ago. Tom Jr. holds on to his father's coat, and kept his gaze on the door, ready to leave.

"Son, you're not coming with me. You have to stay here." Tom Riddle Sr. tells his son, patting the child's head. He smiles as at the boy with the best genuine smile that I have seen him make.

"No, dad. I don't want to stay. I want to leave with you." The boys insists, this time choosing to hug one of his father's lanky legs.

"Dad has some errands to do. I can't do those errands with you tagging along. I need you to stay here for a few days. When I'm done with my errands, I'll come back for you." His father lies.

"How long will your errands take? Can't you finish them in a few hours?" His son asks.

"Unfortunately my errands will take longer than a few hours to finish. I need you to stay here so that I would finish my errands faster, I can't do the errands and take care of you at the same time."

"Dad, I don't want to be here. I want to be with you." Tom Riddle Jr. insists.

"No, Tom. I can't do my errands with you tagging along. You have to stay here until my errands are done. Stay here, you can play with children your age while I am gone." The father advises.

At this point, the child started to cry, having realized that his father is determined to leave him.

"Promise me Dad, promise me you'll come back." Tom Riddle Jr. tells his father.

Having heard his son ask such an impossible request, I hear Riddle Sr. inhales sharply and briefly looked at his son with hopelessness. Tom Riddle Sr. cannot keep such a promise, he knows that he could die at any time and that keeping a promise he cannot keep would only further traumatize the boy.

He kneels, so as to properly regard the child face to face. He then pats his son's head, smiling gently as he did. The boy's crying is instantly reduced into sniffles. "Remember the time that I left you with Gran and Pap, when you stayed for a few days in their house?" The father asks patiently.

The boy simply nodded in response.

"I told you at that time that I would get you in a few days. I promised you that I would, and I did." Tom Riddle Sr. points out, trying to distract his son from the fact that he wouldn't be making the same promise that he made in the past. "I came back, didn't I? I kept my promise." The father asserts.

The boy shifts from his tight hold of his father's leg to hug his father's upper torso instead.

"I'll be back to get you in a few days. It will only be a few days, Tom." The dying man tries to reassure the child, patting his son's back.

"Okay." The boys reluctantly agrees.

Having given approval to leave, the ill man carries the child. Tom Sr. let the boy wrap his arms around his neck, moving in a swaying motion that is usually done when handling a baby. Once again, his façade of calm and assurance is shattered as he allows himself to tighten his hold of his son and express grief.

"Dad." Tom Riddle Jr. calls out to his father who is holding him tightly.

"Yes, son?" His father answers.

"I can't breathe." The child points out.

"Oh yes, of course. Sorry about that." Riddle Sr. apologizes, bringing his son back to his feet. He then resumes to a kneeling position in order to rest his hands on the boy's shoulders and allowed himself to take a good long look at his son. "I'll miss you son. Remember that I love you." He tells the boy.

"I'll always remember Dad. You remind me every day." Tom Riddle Jr. replies unquestioningly.

"Your old man doesn't want you to forget. I remind you every day, so that you would know that I love you when I am not around to tell you that." The father reasons to the boy, grinning as he did. He then messes the hair of his son's head with his hand, causing the boy to laugh.

Merida wipes a tear from her eye, looking away from the scene and giving her husband a hug.

I simply stood where the boy left me, stunned that Voldemort's father was so affectionate towards his boy. Since he abandoned the boy, I assumed that Riddle Sr. was cold or at least conservative with emotional interactions. I never did found information about how Tom Riddle was treated by his father.

"Best we leave. I think we're well overdue for Mr. Riddle's medications. The terminal nurses back in the hospital will have my head." Rudolph McAllister informs his wife.

Having heard Merida's husband, I quietly make my way to the couple, wanting to be closer to the group in order to better hear their conversations.

"Get the boy as soon as there is good news." The stout nurse murmurs to her husband.

"I don't think there would be good news for this one." The short military officer murmurs back.

"I'm talking about parents who could adopt him. You know boys can't stay here for too long." Merida hisses, glaring at Mr. McAllister like he should have known such a detail.

"As long as we do not have proof, I can't press charges. You know that." Mr. Rudolph tells his wife, tired of discussing the topic that she is bringing up.

Until now, I have yet to uncover why Mrs. Merida doesn't want boys to stay in the orphanage for too long. Overtime, perhaps I will have enough information to know why. But for now, I will just listen.

"Proof? Is it not enough to show the bruising or the blood?"

"Shh..not in front of the children." Mr. Rudolph reminds the lady.

Mrs. Merida holds her tongue, and that was enough about that mysterious issue. Holding off my curiosity on what they were talking about, I accompany the husband and wife in observing the two guests. The father and son are now talking about different types of insects.

"Have you seen the garden Tom? I'm pretty sure you could find all sorts of bugs in there." The father suggests. Apparently the father and son share an avid interest for creepy crawlies.

"I saw a blue butterfly and a large beetle. I'll try to identify them later." The son proudly replies.

After sharing farewells and other formalities, Mr. Rudolph readies himself to leave by wearing his coat. Mrs. Merida helps her husband to wear his scarf and his mittens, and I went to fetch the man's boots. Tom follows my gesture as well, lugging the boots of his father take them with gratitude.

As they were about to leave the house, Tom Riddle Jr. surprises his father by jumping to his arms and giving him a last hug. "I love you too Dad, I'll miss you until you get here." The boy tells the man.

Astonished perhaps by his son's actions, Tom Riddle Sr. did not utter a word in return. He simply brings his son back to the ground and pats the boy's head for the last time. He looks away briefly, hiding his glassy eyes and his tightened lips. He then shoves his hands on the side pockets of his coat.

After moments of regaining his composure, he confronts his boy again with a smiling face. "I'll be back before you know that I'm gone. I'll miss you every day." The father replies.

We waved goodbye as Mr. Rudolph closed the doors. When they left the room, Mrs. Merida distracts the boy by asking Tom if he would like to join her for tea and cookies. Riddle obediently agrees and follows her to the kitchen. Instead of tagging along, I decided to look out of the window nearby.

Looking out of the window, I see that the father is still standing by the door, his face is wracked with anxiety and his eyes are staring at the doorknobs. He wasn't smiling anymore, perhaps immensely disturbed by what he is about to do. He looks like he is about to change his mind on leaving his son.

I have to do something. I should at least try.

Merida and the boy is at the kitchen, Mr. Rudolph will be the only witness if I fail.

Quickly, I opened the door, confronting the man who is about to abandon his son.

He is understandably frightened that someone opened the door that he was ruminating on, perhaps thinking that I was his son. For a second, I thought that if the boy was here instead of me, Riddle Sr. might change his mind about abandoning the child. But I don't have much time to bring the boy back.

I'm sure that if I let this opportunity slip away, if I even turn my back for a second, the dying man would leave without a second thought. He is at a point where he is fragile, vulnerable to suggestion and urgency of death, my actions should be without hesitation yet with little error to my unique situation.

I am a child after all, I should act like one.

"Please don't go mister. Please don't leave him." I beg the tall man in front of me, holding his hand without permission to do so. His hands are large, I could only hold on to three of his long fingers.

His mouth is slightly ajar as he absorbed what I told him. A five year old girl shouldn't be begging in such a manner. A five year old girl should have limited empathy and communication skills. But here I am, talking beyond my expected age or maturity. I'm desperate. I need to bend the rules a little for now.

Slightly recovering from my odd request, he regards me at my childlike state.

"D-don't worry little girl, I'll be back to pick him up." He stutters, but manages to give me a smile.

"No, you're not. I know that you won't be coming back." I state bluntly.

"Mina, what are you doing?" Mr. Rudolph asks, shocked with my actions as well.

"I know you won't be back. Nobody does. I've seen this happen before. Don't abandon him mister, please. You'll make him sad, and you'll be sad too." I reason while trying to keep a childlike image.

"Mina, that's rude! Don't accuse someone about something you can't understand." Mr. McAllister scolds me, furious of my actions. My shoulders shiver involuntarily. I have never heard or seen Mr. Rudolph so angry with me. I am clearly crossing the line with my actions, but I won't stop.

"You'll regret this. I know you will. Your son will always wonder why you left him, and he won't forget. I know because I was abandoned too, I know the feeling." I persist, defending my actions by adding my background of being abandoned in the orphanage.

"Alright, that's it! I don't know why you're acting this way, little girl. But I'm stopping this now." Mr. Rudolph was about to grab my hand and most likely bring me back to the nursery. But before he could, Riddle Sr. prevents him to do so by blocking McAllister's actions with a flimsy arm.

"I'm so sorry about this, Mr. Riddle. Mina is usually reckless, but never in this manner." Mr. Rudolph apologizes on my behalf. "Mina, go back to the nursery or else I'm calling Dorothy to give you a good spanking for what you've done." He warns. Before I can utter another word, McAllister shuts the doors.

I tried to open the door again, but somehow it was locked at the other side. I tried pushing the doors and pounding on them loudly, but to no avail. Wanting to know what is stopping me from going outside, I rushed to the window and learned that Mr. Rudolph tied the doorknobs with his belt.

Defeated, I decided to watch them leave. Even though I will try to go outside from the other side of the building, I know that I won't make it in time. They would have gone by then.

"He will be alright sir. He's going to be fine." Mr. Rudolph assures the dying man.

"How can you be so sure? He is so young..I just..I just want to be there for him." Tom Riddle Sr. responds to the messenger, his voice cracking as he expresses his anguish.

"I am not sure, sir. But you told me a few hours ago that I should tell you he is going to be okay." McAllister pats the dying man on the shoulder. "You also told me that if you are having second thoughts, I should tell you that leaving him than making him watch you die is the best choice you could make."

With that, Mr. Riddle sobs, tears flowing from his eyes. He cries softly, not wanting anyone to hear. Not wanting his son to know that leaving him would not be temporary. Slowly, he turns away from the door and walked in long strides in order to separate himself from the orphanage as soon as possible.

"Mr. Riddle, wait for me!" Mr. Rudolph shouts as he tries to catch up with the father through short yet fast strides of walking. When they are now walking side by side, McAllister does not say a word.

The father did not stop or slowed down, rubbing his eyes dry and keeping his head down. He didn't look back at the orphanage, nor did he mention further doubt on his fatal decision of abandoning his son.

He kept walking, and walking.

He kept walking until he was gone.

.

* * *

" _I had to wait until I was fifteen years old before I was able to kill Morfin Gaunt. As you know, Miss Granger, wizards and witches attain their magical capabilities when they are twelve years old and above. My magical capabilities began when I was twelve, but mastering the killing curse took me three years."_

" _Sir, you managed to master the killing curse in three years? At fifteen years of age?" I comment, in awe at the feat that the headmaster managed to accomplish. The killing curse would usually take decades of training before one can truly kill a person. "How were you able to master the curse in three years?" I ask._

 _The Headmaster chooses not to answer, looking at me like I was missing the point of this conversation._

" _When I was in Morfin Gaunt's lifetime, I was fated to be one of his neighbours. It was the most convenient situation because I was able to keep watch of him. I made sure that I was his closest friend. We would play all day and get into fights when one of us was being chided by young vagrants."_

 _I couldn't stop myself from smiling. He described bullies as, 'Young Vagrants'._

" _He was like any other boy. He was innocent and naïve, kind yet stubborn. If I kept him from that traumatic event, he would have had a normal life."_

" _Traumatic event? What would that be?"_

" _His parents were killed, Ms. Granger. By muggleborns."_

" _Oh." I awkwardly reply._


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?

.

" _Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt were murdered by thieves, thieves who thought that the couple would not put up a fight. Morfin's parents were good decent purebloods, who find violence unnecessary. But they had their son with them, and it was their first time travelling in the muggle realm, they were desperate."_

" _They fought the thieves?" I asked, picturing the scenario that must have happened._

" _Yes, they did. The thieves, who were astonished by the actions of Morfin's parents, stabbed Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt with kitchen knives. In their panic of killing, they spared Morfin who was left to watch as his parents slowly died in his arms." The Headmaster explained, staring distantly at his fireplace._

" _Was no one there to help the boy?"_

" _The family was passing through an isolated boulevard. Even though the child was shouting for help, no one could help them in time." He sighed, expressing disdain for such a situation._

" _That is very unfortunate." I expressed, truly sorry for such a tragedy._

" _When I killed Morfin Gaunt, my first thoughts were not about preventing the war and saving millions of lives. My first thoughts were about whether I could sleep at night, knowing that I killed a misunderstood yet innocent soul. Whether I could live the rest of my life, knowing I have killed a good friend."_

* * *

I couldn't sleep.

I tried shifting to the other side of my bed, and then to the opposite side. I fluff my pillow and loosen my neatly folded blanket. But I still couldn't relax enough. My mind is to chaotic, my body feels like the day just began. I feel restless than drowsy, not compelled to close my eyes for longer than a minute.

I couldn't sleep. Today was too eventful for sleep.

After years of waiting, Tom Riddle arrived.

He arrived, and now he is currently residing in the boy's room that is just right across from where I am.

Tom Riddle is staying at the same house, at the same floor that I am in. I can just walk a few steps and I would be right there in front of that boy's bunk. I can look at him every day now, I can see him anytime.

Tears started to flow from my eyes. I feel so excited and terrified all at once. I know that I was going to witness this day, I waited patiently and waiting is not my best discipline. But now that this day arrived, I don't know what to make of it. I guess at the back of my mind, I didn't believe it would happen.

It happened.

He's here.

Tom Riddle arrived, and was abandoned by his father. I tried to convince his father not to abandon his son, but Riddle Sr. was determined to leave his son at St. Agatha. It was inevitable for the father to leave his son at an orphanage, he was dying after all. It would be more convenient for me if his son stayed.

The reason why I wanted Tom Riddle to leave is to prevent trauma that could happen to the boy by being abandoned. His father was a muggleborn, and perhaps that fact fuelled his hatred for muggles. Perhaps, if he was not abandoned and was allowed to witness his father's death, he would be different.

Since the boy was abandoned despite my efforts, I have to deal with the aftermath.

Tom Riddle would not realize he was abandoned for at least two weeks.

By the time that he realized what his father did, what would he do?

How would he react? Can he move on from that? Forget what his father did?

I don't know. There are so many questions going through my mind.

But the questions that really nag me are whether he is really only a few feet away from me.

Is he really here? Am I actually going to go through with it?

Is this really happening?

I have to know. I have to confirm.

Since getting sleep would be fruitless, I decide to sneak into the boy's room and confirm that Tom Riddle is truly residing at the same place that I am in. I know that the idea is ridiculous, but I have been waiting for years for this to happen. Maybe I am just imagining things; maybe this is just a dream.

Maybe I started to lose my mind; maybe I lost it a long time ago. Did I really have a past apart from this life that I currently am in? Do I actually have a mission, based from the past life that I had?

I think..I am starting to forget why I was sent here in the first place.

I need to see him. I need to.

Quietly leaving my bed and making my way downstairs, I went to the kitchen to fetch a knife.

I don't know why I want to get a knife, the boy is practically harmless. But since I have yet to attain my magical abilities, I should equip myself adequately. The boy may be a boy, but he is not just any boy. Unless he is stopped, this child is Tom Riddle, future oppressor of the magical and muggle world.

Besides, I never faced Voldemort without bringing a weapon of some sort.

So I take a knife, and make my way upstairs and enter the boy's bedroom.

In the room is a set of bunkers, bunkers like the ones in my room. In my room, I share a bunker with Lucy. The bunkers can accommodate two kids, four if the orphanage has more children than intended. But currently the bunkers hold only two, one child is on top bunk and another is on the lower bunk.

I'm glad that I have top bunk back in my room. Lucy tends to pee on her bed.

Unlike the girl's room, the bunkers in the boy's room are older and beaten. The boys are rowdy and have more tendencies to ruin the property of the orphanage. Therefore, boys get the older set of bunkers as a way to reduce cost from damages that they would inevitably do.

To make up for having old bunks, the boys have a bigger wider room. Passing Paul and Robert's bunker, I arrive at Tom's bunker which he shares with Peter. Lucky for him, that Peter stopped wetting his bed last year. Riddle is located at the lower bunk, fast asleep and not disturbed by my presence.

He sleeps deeply, whereas I couldn't even catch a wink. So much so that at a glance, one would think that he is a statue. But there are subtle signs of life, his small body rises slightly when he breathes and his eyelashes flutter like he was trying to interpret a dream. The dream though, does not seem pleasant.

If I didn't know any better, he appears like an ordinary boy who is just trying to sleep in a strange new environment. But an ordinary boy wouldn't be in a cold sweat as he is now, suppressing his emotions through his dreams. A child would usually cry or shout loudly when spending a night without parents.

His stone-like sleep is being disturbed by a nightmare that I cannot see. He mutters incoherent sounds and calls for his father softly in his sleep. Perhaps he is having a nightmare because he is adjusting with his new environment, or maybe he worries for his father. Either way, he is not sleeping well.

I tighten my grip on the knife that I got from the kitchen. For some odd reason, I want to let the sharp edge of the knife touch the boy's skin. And so I did, I brought he knife beneath his chin and let the metal lightly touch the flesh of the boy, feeling through his neck. One wrong move and he can bleed to death.

My hand that holds the knife starts to tremble, even my body is starting to shake. I physically want to sink the knife on the fragile veins of the child. It is taking all of my self-control not to cut the boy at his weakest. It would be so easy to murder him right now; no one would know that I killed him.

The temptation is strong, I want to give in. I almost did. But then the moon struck the knife at a particular angle and I am reminded on how the parents of Morfin Gaunt died. They died by being stabbed by kitchen knives. Kitchen knives, like the one that I am holding right now.

Like the one that I am currently hovering on a child's neck.

Gritting my teeth and closing my eyes, I brought the knife down to suspend by my leg.

With long deep breaths, I calm myself. I keep my eyes closed, soothing my thoughts with infinite darkness that occurs when closing your eyes at a dim lit area. The darkness helps, my emotions are settling. The urge to kill is diminished, and only lucid calculative judgment is left.

"You can't sleep either?" A voice asks me out of nowhere.

Having heard the voice, I open my eyes to find Riddle looking directly at me.

His eyes, his supposedly maroon eyes are bright red due to the moonlight that shows his pale thin face. He has a composed demeanour, despite the fact that I am standing beside his bed.

Speechless but quick to react, I bring the hand that holds the knife to rest on my back. He didn't appear to have noticed the knife that I am holding. If he did, he should be panicking by now, thinking I was losing my mind and I was going to kill him. At one point, I did have such thoughts, but not anymore.

At least, not for now.

"Do you know where the kitchen is? My dad said that I can sleep better if I drink some milk." He tells me softly, not wanting to disturb the other boys who are sleeping in our midst.

"I know where the kitchen is. Follow me." I answer, not knowing why I am assisting the boy.

Not wanting to show my confused face, I turn around quickly and started to walk, hinting that he follows me. I jump slightly when he steps out of his bed and does as he was told. Although I still have the knife, which I am hiding in the pocket of my night gown, I feel so insecure to have my back in front of him.

Relax, relax Hermione. He's just a boy.

As I lead him to the kitchen, my façade is disintegrating even more. I am supposed to act like a little girl; I should be more like a child. But instead, I am walking cautiously, glancing several times at the boy behind me and not in a mood to make small talk. I have to make small talk, small talk is normal.

"So um..what's your name again?" I ask lamely, doing a perfect friendly smile.

"My name is Tom. What about you? What's your name?" He asks as he avoids the vase in front of him.

"My name is Mina." I say, flashing my small teeth and making sure that my eyes look kind.

"Can I ask you a question, Mina?" He asks, his brows furrowing for a concern that I am uncertain.

"Sure, anything." I reply, trying to keep the conversation light. But this boy is too civilized for his age.

Why does he have to ask permission to ask a question? Such manners are only practiced by old men. I know that the generation of this century is very traditional, but Riddle is still a boy. For Merlin's sake, he should be acting rude or sporadic. Boys his age wouldn't bother to ask questions either.

"Why do you have to fake a smile like that? Don't you get tired of faking smiles? No one is around other than me. You don't have to do that." He tells me.

Having heard what he told me, I swear needles were pricking my ears.

This boy is not normal.

I face him, a smile still plastered on my face. "What did you say?" I ask for him to reiterate what he said, just so I know that what I heard was not something I made up in my mind.

"You don't have to smile all the time." He revised his question into advice.

Advice. This boy is giving me advice.

Quick, I need to think of a response that wouldn't make me too peculiar.

But maybe..maybe peculiar would be a good thing.

"Oh good, I thought I should smile a lot since you're new here. Mrs. Merida wants us to smile around visitors. But you're not like the other kids." I comment, changing my smile into an amused grin.

He raised his eyebrows, surprised by my statement. "You're not like the other kids either." He replies.

"That would make us friends then, right Tom?" I tell him, trying to change the topic.

He stares at me like friendship is not something that is commonly offered to him. "I guess so." He says.

Having arrived at the kitchen, I went straight for the door that would lead to the garden. Opening the door, I grab a bottle of milk that is located by the door. Leaving milk outside is a common practice during autumn, especially since refrigerators are yet to be made available for home use.

And even though refrigerators are finally created for home use, the orphanage cannot afford them.

Having passed him a glass, I watch him as he sips discreetly. The decent thing to do is pour myself a glass of milk as well, but I'm pretty sure that I would just vomit it. My stomach is too acidic at the moment, perhaps the stress of interacting with the boy is getting to me. If so, then ulcers will be a constant habit.

Having given this opportunity to interact with the boy without any interference, I decide to prep Tom Riddle for the situation of realizing that he was abandoned. Sooner or later, he will come to the conclusion that his father left him and would never return. I should let him get used to the idea.

I might have to end this evening unpleasantly for both sides. But I should try to make him cope.

I want nothing more for him to attempt suicide from learning that he was abandoned.

But I should be empathetic.

"Did your dad left you here in the orphanage to be an orphan?" I ask bluntly.

Riddle coughs harshly in response, almost coughing out what he is drinking.

"No! My dad would never do that. I'm only here until his errands are done." He tells me.

"I don't think your dad has errands. I think he's too sick for that." I point out, further ruining the picture that his father left for him.

"H-he's done errands before. He left me back in Grandma's place and he came back. He did!" He exasperatedly defends, fear showing on his face.

If I introduce him to the truth, he would realistically grasp his situation. But I have to tone it down a bit.

I don't want him to have a mental breakdown.

"But your dad is sick right?" I say, letting him reflect on his father's obvious condition. "Maybe instead of errands, he's at the hospital trying to get well. Maybe he left you here so that he could – "

"He's coming back. My dad is coming back." He tells me, his voice trembling.

Tears are coming out of his eyes, he's looking anywhere but me. He now has the idea in his mind that his father won't show up. Better yet, he already had doubts that his father would come back. He just needs someone to confirm his insecurities, to make him realize that it is actually happening.

I have to stop now, he is already shaken up. At least when the truth comes out later on, he wouldn't be so disturbed to the point that the damage would be unfixable. Having read three books on grieving before I was sent here, I learned that reality should be shared in small doses in order to enable coping.

If he ruminates on the idea of his father leaving him, he should recover well when he finds out.

At least, I'm hoping that he would.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things." I tell him, making sure that I am not saying that what I said was not true. That way, he would still consider what I have told him.

"I think I can go back to bed now." He tells me as he sniffles, furiously wiping his tears and keeping his eyes down at the floor. Obviously he does not want to stay longer in my company.

"Okay. I'm really sorry." I reply, feigning guilt.

He nods to show that he accepts my apology.

Going back to the dorms was uncomfortably quiet. He doesn't bother to look around and is focused on going back to his room. When we get there, I thought he would continue to ignore me and go back to his bed. But instead, he turns to look at me directly without hatred or fear, he wants to say something.

"Thanks again for the milk." He tells me.

"You're welcome."I reply, not knowing how else I would react to his gratitude.

* * *

" _I did everything I could to prevent Morfin Gaunt and his parents from going to that trip. But no one would take me seriously in my state of being a child. I was acting so frantic when Morfin was telling me that they planned a trip to Paris, so much so that he didn't tell me when they were going to leave."_

 _The headmaster's gaze focused on the phoenix that does not feel uncomfortable with the attention._

" _By the time they left for Paris, I was too late to catch up. He turned hollow and lifeless. After several months, the boy chooses to live only to exact revenge for the death of his parents."_

" _You did your best Sir, no one would think otherwise." I told him._

" _I apologize for saying this, Miss Granger. But there is a reason why my decisions still persist to haunt me. There is a reason why I still feel a twinge of guilt." He answered grimly._


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?

 _._

 _"_ _After Gaunt lost his parents, I gave up on the idea that I could change his perspective on being a pureblood supremacist. He was still so young, and yet I gave up on him. I thought that going through the loss of his parents destroyed any hope towards making him human. I neglected Morfin as a friend, ignored him until it was the time to kill him." Dumbledore said with spite which is directed at himself._

 _He pulls out an old yearbook from his cabinet full of Hogwarts records. The yearbook is from the year he graduated. He opens the book and stops at on specific page, a page decorated with green margin. The page features one boy with coal black hair, his eyes are forest green and his face is decorated with a splatter of freckles. He smiles calmly, and then smirks like he was keeping a secret from the world._

 _"_ _He had so much promise, everyone thought so. But I made sure that he would not be known beyond potential." He told me._

 _Morfin Gaunt looked like any Slytherin, arrogant and manipulative. But his confident appearance in the moving picture would not erase the words printed at the bottom of the page: 'In Memory of Morfin Gaunt, a pure descendant of Salazar.'_

 _"_ _Not a lot of people knew him back then, even though he was a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin. But as we grew older, his influence was steadily increasing. By the time we were at our second year, he was so close to his colleagues that he was appointed as a prefect."_

 _"_ _Headmaster, you mentioned that you were sorted as a Gryffindor a few years back..how were you able to keep a close eye at Gaunt when he was a Slytherin?"  
_

 _"_ _I was sorted in Ravenclaw, a house which maintains a neutral ground with Slytherin, being sorted in Ravenclaw ensures my distance from Gaunt." He informs._

 _"_ _You mean, after the incident, you stopped interacting with him?" I asked, watching the young phoenix sleep nearby._

 _"_ _No, I still interacted with him. But slowly, I made my presence unknown. I avoided him as soon as we entered Hogwarts; I stayed close enough to know if he was planning anything ghastly, but I wasn't close enough to let anyone think that I am affiliated with him. Still, despite the fact that I was less of a friend and more of an acquaintance, he still trusted me more than most of his followers."_

 _"_ _How can you be so sure that he trusted you more than most?" I asked._

 _"_ _Before he died, he was looking at me like I was an old friend. Like we knew each other well enough not to be uncomfortable. He was so vulnerable in front of me, so at ease; so much so that when I drew my wand to his face, he simply quirked his brow out of curiosity."_

 _._

* * *

The next day, Riddle acted like a normal kid. He woke up at the exact time that we all did, wordlessly following us to the kitchen and eating breakfast without a protest. He ate all the items that were presented for breakfast, even choosing to eat the broccoli which most of us decided not to consume.

When it was time for us to attend class, he actually participated in an avid manner. He introduced himself with bright eyes, as if he wasn't at all upset yesterday. He followed what was expected of him, participating well enough when the teacher asked him to. He even told a few jokes during class hours.

At lunch time, he ate well and played with us at the grounds of St. Agatha. He laughed when Peter made funny faces; he helped Anna when she was trying to reach for a fruit from the pear tree. For the afternoon lessons, he read a chapter of a book with ease, not having difficulty with complicated words.

He smiled a lot throughout his first day.

He laughed.

He made friends.

He helped some random kid.

He smiled.

Watching him act like a typical child was unnerving, and disgusting at the same time.

The thing is, I wasn't disgusted at him. I was disgusted at myself. I was watching him like he was about to do something very wrong, like he would murder one of us if we weren't looking. Or at least, torment some poor child or animal without any sign of consciousness or guilt. But he did nothing I imagined.

I kept my distance as he interacted with most people that he meets. I made sure that he didn't notice me as I hovered at almost everything that he does. No matter what side I see him, in any situation that he put himself into, I couldn't see what he could become. I couldn't see what he would be in the future.

Eventually my cautiousness diminished. This boy is harmless, at least for now.

There was one time, on his first day here, that I caught him looking outside from a window. It was just a minute or less, but his enthusiastic composure is stilled into mild concern. He was looking outside, outside at where the entrance of the orphanage is. He was looking at the place his father left him.

He just looked, stared. He did nothing else that is peculiar. And that was it, he reverted to normalcy.

The window is a perfect place to watch as people come and go, it is large and the sun would hit the glass at the morning and make relaxing shade at the afternoon. When he is at his moments of looking outside, he would use this window often. The other windows do not give much view of the entrance.

His mild interest of staring at the window continues for a few more days. But then, after one week, he started to spend more time watching the outside through the window. This time, he wasn't simply looking out with mild interest, he looked concerned..worried. But his worry would be temporary.

Another week passed, and his need to watch from the window increases. He would watch from the window for thirty minutes or more every day. His laughter and smiles becomes an occasional gesture, his participation in class becomes a rare affair. He wouldn't even volunteer during reading time.

He avoids interaction with anyone, not wanting to lose attention from his precious view of the outside. His new friends tried to get his attention, but he ignored them and they eventually ignored him also.

He was becoming more aware about his reality, more aware that his father would not return. At some point, I wondered why he wouldn't just escape from the orphanage in order to see his father. If he just asked around, he would discover that the hospital is just a few blocks away. He could just walk there.

But no, his dedication for his windows continues to persist. He would rather stay by a window instead of opening the doors to the outside. Then I realized, I realized that the reason why he would rather stay by his window is because his father promised that he would come back. Tom Sr. promised he would return.

If he leaves, and his father returns, Riddle may not be around. That was the reason why he doesn't choose to just simply leave the orphanage in order to find his father. He still believes his father's lie.

His dedication to his father's word is astounding. Even I would doubted my parents at his age.

A few more days, and he started skipping meals and classes. He would pretend to pay attention, but instead look through windows as soon as he gets the chance. He didn't stick to one window anymore; he would look at every window where he resides. He would spend hours on the window by the entrance.

After a month, he becomes a shell of his former self. He doesn't smile or laugh, doesn't play or talk with any of the children. He could spend a day or two without eating or drinking anything. He skipped lessons entirely, reasoning out that he wasn't feeling well but then spend his hours watching out the window.

The nurses urge him to eat, or at least do anything else other than watch from his window. But to no avail. Eventually they let him be, forcing him to eat and drink at least once a day. After all, it wasn't strange for children to be withdrawn when they realized that they were abandoned at St. Agatha.

Another week went, and his condition becomes worst. He chooses not to bathe or eat any meals, spending most of his time watching at the window by the entrance. He even sleeps by the window, doing everything he could to keep his eyes on the gates where his father left without looking back.

The nurses become worried, they couldn't make him do anything to sustain himself. Even when Mrs. Merida shouted at his face, or gives him a spanking, he still reverts to simply watching the outside through the window. He used to stand a few weeks back, but now he is too weak to even stand for a few minutes.

He becomes frustrated and hopeless. His father's lie is starting to decay his resolve to silent waiting.

From time to time, when I would pass by, I could hear him muttering to himself.

"He promised."

"He promised."

"He promised."

He would mutter those two words over and over again.

Days passed and eventually he is forced to be confined at the sick ward. He struggled by shouting, thrashing around, and kicking weakly as he was being carried to the infirmary. Mrs. Merida and the nurses had to tie him on the bed because he would leave as soon as they thought he could be left alone.

Confined at the ward without his consent, he would scream so loud that he disturbed our class hours which are held two floors above from where he is located. He would scream until someone had to come by and remind him to be quiet. His screaming would worsen when the sun sets, his throat would bleed.

Even though his throat was hoarse, even though he didn't have the strength to go out of the bed, he would still do what he could to be intolerable. Since he couldn't even lift a spoon, his caretakers would feed him. But even the nurses lost their patience when feeding the boy, because he vomits intentionally.

A few more days, and he becomes ill from malnutrition and anxiety. I heard that his fever wasn't going down and that his illness will only worsen due to the fact that he was filthy. He didn't take a bath or shower in a month. If he continues to neglect himself, he needs to be transferred to a hospital.

He doesn't shout or thrash about anymore. He simply lies in his bed, motionless unless one of the nurses decides to force feed him. He used to be sustained through liquids that are dispensed on a needle, tubes, and a glass bottle. But his veins are now two small for the needle to gain access.

His decision to stay quiet is returned with the silence of nurses who deal with him. Usually, the nurses would bicker among themselves as soon as they deal with his worsening condition. On the rare occasions that I pass the ward, the nurses used to shout bitterly at him as they tend to his health.

But now, even Mrs. Merida is completely silent. Instead of fear and anger to Riddle's intentional sickness, they now look somber and very patient. They do not utter a word when tending to him.

Thinking that the silence of our caretakers is strange, I decided to eavesdrop on their hushed conversations after dinner. I then learned that Riddle's father actually passed away, a few days ago.

Last January 15, 1928, Tom Riddle Sr. died from Tuberculosis.

His father died, and apparently the nurses have yet to tell the boy of his father's passing.

I understand. The boy was ill as it is, telling him that his father died may only worsen his condition.

But they did not know the reason why he is ill in the first place. They didn't know why he wasn't recovering from being abandoned. Mrs. Merida and the others didn't know that Tom wants to be sick. For the past weeks, he was intentionally making himself sick in order to be transferred to the hospital.

At some point of his despair, Tom listened to me. He considered the fact that his father is not well. And that his father would most likely be trying to recover instead of doing the chores which he explained to his now estranged son. And now, he decided to neglect himself in order to reunite with his father.

It was a stupid plan, a naïve idea. But I know that that at the back of his mind, Tom also thinks that his plan was stupid and naïve. The boy is smart, he knows better to believe that getting ill in order to see his father would be a blind attempt to getting what he want. And yet, he chooses his plan. He is desperate.

He is that desperate to see his father.

But now, his father is dead.

And he does not know that yet.

Someone has to tell him, someone has to tell him the truth. If nobody does, he would simply lose consciousness and his sanity once he arrives at the hospital and finds out that his father is now dead.

He needs to know.

And if anyone has to tell him, it should be me.

If I am the one who tells the truth, I know that it would be beneficial in the long run. I would gain his trust and he would rely on me more than anyone else. He would trust my word before he would consider his own. He would trust me with his life.

I have to tell him.

I have to be the one who will be there when he needs hope.

So today, on a sunny morning, I decide to tell him in person that his father died.

When I arrive at the ward, I am greeted with no one in particular. The nurses are having a meeting at the other side of the room, discussing on how they will be transferring Tom to the hospital if he does not improve in a few days. I approach his bed with determination, eager to tell him about the old news.

From afar, I could tell that he is sleeping. Other than his unconscious state, I can smell him from a distance. My blood feels like it is curdling, I feel goose bumps crawling on my skin; my body is preparing myself from dealing with something revolting. When a gush of wind made his smell worse, I feel worse.

As soon as I reluctantly reach his bed, my resolve is further disturbed.

Riddle smells awful, like carcass left to dry and rot. He was so weak and malnourished that he couldn't even keep his mouth closed, his saliva drips slowly from his dry thin lips. The boy is so emaciated that he looked like he could die any second. The only sign of life was his breathing and closing of eyelids.

Why is he so neglected? Why didn't they bring him to the hospital several weeks ago?

I guess the orphanage dealt with similar symptoms of abandonment, but this is atrocious.

He needed extreme intervention, he needs proper sustenance.

I shiver as I witness his gaunt features, guilt started to ooze out from my head and then reach my toes.

I could have prevented this.

If I wasn't so consumed by my cold meticulous actions, if I wasn't so focused on the need to be precise, he wouldn't be in such a dire state.

I neglected him, I did.

I did this.

I neglected him on purpose. I was so..focused on my anger. So focused on my need for revenge.

Growing up in this life, I told myself over and over again that I wouldn't let my anger keep me from accomplishing my objective. I was brought here for a reason, and that reason was not to let Tom Riddle die; at least, not by my hand or the hand of others. If Riddle is to die, he is supposed to die naturally.

This is wrong..this is so wrong. What have I done?

Voldemort deserves more than starving himself to death, he deserves more than neglect. This evil creature should be staked at the heart and burned for everyone to see. Neglect is too good for him. But the boy in front of me did not deserve any suffering, he deserves mercy, he deserves care and patience.

Despite feeling concern, feeling guilt, I consider killing him where he lies. If this child is gone, his future will end with him. For a brief second, I considered suffocating him so that his suffering would end. With a trembling hand, I pondered on whether I should reach for his neck or check how high his fever is.

Instead of reaching his neck, instead of strangling him, I rest my shaky hand on his forehead.

He is hot, so much so that feeling his skin feels like touching a warm oven. He needs to cool down.

With a scrunched nose, trying not to smell his stench of filth and sweat, I pull down his covers in order to let his body lower his temperature. My careful movement stirs him from his labored sleeping.

"Hey." He simply says, too tired to greet properly.

"Hello." I managed to reply, trying not to puke at his presence.

My overwhelmed senses is halted when I see him slowly and excruciatingly make a small smile.

"What are you smiling for?" I blurted, so surprised from his odd expression that I couldn't help myself.

"You're not ignoring me anymore." He said in a raspy voice.

His answer floored me. Yes, it is true that I was intentionally avoiding him. But out of all the things he would give attention, the absence of my presence since our last interaction is actually important. Despite the fact that he is so sick that he couldn't stand, so sick that he could die from hunger.

He was..he is so amused that I am not ignoring him anymore?

"I wasn't ignoring you. I just..I thought you wouldn't like me much since I told you that your father abandoned you here. I was wrong to tell you that." I tell him as an excuse to his notion.

"You weren't wrong, Mina. You were right. My father left me here because he is sick. I just..I just didn't want to believe what you said. Thank you though, for telling me." He says, pausing from loss of energy. He smiles again, before looking away to gaze at the damn window situated beside him.

"You need to eat something, you're very sick." I tell him, intentionally ignoring his odd gratitude.

"Thank you..for worrying." He says with a faint smile.

Knowing that I am not ignoring him, makes him genuinely happy. Instead of feeling more sorry for him, his amusement..his happiness reminds me why I am here in the first place. Although his reason for being amused is peculiar, this boy needs to know that his father died. Besides, I want to crush his happiness.

Saying that his father died will wipe that grin from his face.

"Your father died, a few days ago." I inform him with a neutral and clear voice.

Instantly, his weak attempt to smile disappears, replaced by an expression of indescribable loss.

At first I thought he died, because hearing my words seem to have made him so perfectly still. But then tears started to fall from his eyes. His breathing becomes more ragged, labored as he tries to physically react from what I said. He doesn't bother to wipe the water streaming down his face, sobbing quietly.

After a while of staring at the ceiling in front of him, he silently moves without any loud protest to the awful news. With trembling arms, he moves away from me and focuses his attention at the window by his bed. Instead of anticipating something new on the window, he looks at the outside with hopelessness.

It is done, I finally told him. Now, it is just a matter of time.

He is going to get over his loss, and I will soon face the aftermath of telling his despair.

I turn around and take tentative steps of leaving, on my way to walking out of the room. He needs to be alone now, to recover from what I told him. He might hate me for my cold cruel words, but eventually he will see me with respect for telling him the truth. He will respect me, and perhaps fear me as well.

Either way, starting tomorrow, I will visit him regularly and make sure he survives this ordeal.

Halfway to leaving the ward, he calls me.

"Mina." He says with a sniffle.

He called you, he called your name. Look back Hermione, stay calm and collected. Look back.

"Yes, Tom?" I answer politely.

"Don't leave me." He asks with a vulnerable voice.

Listening to his request, I go back to his bed. I keep my face as blank as possible, despite feeling irritated that I have to deal with his smell until he cries himself to sleep. Seeing as I have nothing else to do, I reluctantly comb his matted oily hair with my fingers. I comb his hair slowly, over and over again.

Out of nowhere, his cold bony hand grabs my free hand that was resting on his shoulder.

"Will you promise me you won't leave?" He demands softly, in the form of a question.

"I promise." I say without hesitation, ignoring the feel of his pathetic grimy hand.

 _._

* * *

 _His eyes twitched as he recalls his last memory of his former friend, wretched with a pain that I can only describe as immense guilt._

 _"_ _It was in the middle night when I killed him at the chamber of secrets, not a lot of people knew the location. Gaunt was so trusting towards me, he didn't bother to ask what I was doing at that time. It was not coincidental that I was there, just after he had a meeting with his followers._ _It was the perfect place to kill him. When he died, I can always blame it on the large snake that resides there."_

 _"_ _Nagini." I simply stated, naming the snake that he was talking about._

 _"I..I asked him why he wasn't surprised that I am there with him on a place only known by his house, only known by him and his followers. And then..and then he answered that he knew that I was following him for some time now. He just chose to pretend that I wasn't there, thinking that I was simply curious about his after school activities..He thought that I would want to join his..group."_

 _"He..he never doubted you?" I asked._

 _"No..quite the opposite really. He thought I was harmless, that I am an ally. Despite being a pureblood, I was not a Slytherin. And yet, he trusted me enough to be careless to my presence..he did not think I was a threat. He looked at me with interest, with..excitement. He wanted me to join his rebellion, so trusting to the bitter end. Such a fool."_

 _"Why did he trust you so much?" I question, knowing that Slytherins would rather have the cruciatius curse than share the chamber of secrets to anyone beyond their house._

 _"I do not know for certain. But I think he trusted me because I was the only person who tried to keep him from his fate of losing his parents. I was the only person who was there, when he returned from the muggle realm, I was there waiting for him. I..I think being a part of that..crucial event of his life made me someone who he can depend on, someone who can remind him to be more.."_

 _Dumbledore pauses, composing himself._

 _"I was someone who could have reminded himself to be more human." He states._


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?_

 _._

" _Sir, no matter how much trust Gaunt had for you, he seemed to be too dedicated at fulfilling his objectives. Perhaps his existence, his fate, was evolving on that ultimate goal of inevitable destruction. He was destined to die sir, an atonement of his intent to commit pain and fear." I comment heartlessly._

" _Was he fated to die by my hands? Truly Miss Granger, was his death his reason of existence?" Dumbledore questions. "I took his fate when I took his life. Every individual soul had the right to exact his or her will. And yet, I stole his existence from his current state of hatred and need for dominance."_

 _I rest my face on my palms, tired of his metaphorical riddles._

" _Gaunt's existence was to take over the muggle and magical realm, turn muggles into slaves, and commit injustice and hatred for all. Morfin Gaunt's fate was to destroy the lives of others. Headmaster, what if Tom Riddle is fated to be the monster he is now, just like Morfin Gaunt?" I ask._

" _Although it is a man's fate to die, a man also has the right to exist." The headmaster states solemnly. "At the time, I also considered Gaunt an irretrievable monster. But over the years, I learned that my perception is incomplete. Thus Miss Granger, you are forgetting a very crucial fact." He hinted._

 _I raise my head from the palm of my hands, regaining my attention._

" _Gaunt, Grindlewand, and Riddle have many characteristics in common. But the most essential similarity that they have, which I overlooked, is that they are also part of mankind. I didn't saw them as men, I saw them as beasts, and that was my downfall. As men, they have the right to exist and live their fate."_

" _Existence and fate is truly obscure for man. But there is a possibility of navigating through time and space. If that possibility does not exist, then why can we prevent someone from dying through magical or muggle means? Why can someone end a life so easily, thereby severing other potential fates?"_

 _With a deep breath, I quietly ponder on his latest queries._

" _Why does mankind procure a time turner out of the sacrifice from another soul? Doesn't the time turner compromise existence and fate? Then why does such an apparatus exist? The possibilities are endless." He adds three cubes of sugar on his tea, and sips calmly. "It took me decades to understand why killing Gaunt did not prevent the Wizarding War. But now, I have come to a definite conclusion." He states._

 _The Phoenix croons from the background, comforted by the wisdom that will be shared._

" _Existence and fate may have incomprehensible limitations towards the meddling of time and space. The ultimate rule for time-travelers, be it a period or a life-time, is not to harm a soul. If a time-traveller ends the fate of soul, the reason of existence for that soul will therefore be transferred to another soul."_

 _Astounded at the information that the headmaster informs, my jaw dropped slightly._

" _A time-traveller is not supposed to travel through space and time in order to kill a soul, Miss Granger. Existence may have given us a chance to change our fate through a time-turner, but we are not supposed to end the existence of another human being. To end a life, is to condemn ourselves of the same future."_

 _._

* * *

"Mina, get down here and help Anna or else both of you will have to wash all the dishes all day!" Mrs. Merida McAllister shouts from below.

"It's not even my turn!" I object loudly, pretending to be immensely frustrated at the prospect of washing dishes when I took my turn yesterday.

"You know that Emma is sick young lady!" She replies.

"Why won't any of the boys help with the dishes?" I whine.

"Boys are not supposed to the housework, Mina. For them to wash dishes is preposterous!"

"Alright, I'm coming!" I yell.

"Don't you dare raise your voice to me, you ungrateful child! I never complained when I had to wash and feed you when you were a baby, you best give me the respect I deserve!" Merida bellows.

"I said I'm getting there already. No need to be hysterical." I reply as I stomp my way down and express a disappointed face at the aging Merida who is waiting by the stair case, I gave her the fresh linen that was hanging from the terrace, and then silently joined an apologetic Anna who is already at the kitchen.

"Why can't the boys wash dishes too? So archaic." I mutter as I hand out soapy dishes to the blonde girl next to me.

"Because boys are supposed to work outside and girls are supposed to stay at home. You know that." Anna tells me like the culture is something she memorized from one of our lessons in etiquette.

Seriously, one of our subjects in the orphanage is personal etiquette. Unbelievable.

"I've been doing laundry since five in the morning. In the meantime, the boys are just sitting around outside, pretending to collect firewood." I continue to rant.

"That's not all that we did today, we actually caught some fish. See?" Paul informs, showing off a salmon and a rainbow trout that are carried with thread on their mouths.

"More like I caught fish, while you watch." Tom corrects, putting the fish on a metal strainer.

"Well I did caught some wild quail." Paul continues to show off, setting a wooden trap full of small dark brown birds on the kitchen table.

"I made the trap, so technically I caught the quail." Tom further amends.

"Well, I helped." Paul continues to insist with a grin, before pestering Anna to make him breakfast.

"Here, let me do the rest." Tom tells me before kissing me on cheek, which I respond with a smile and a light hug. He then takes my place at the sink, doing the rest of the work and coaxing Anna to take a break as well. "I agree with Mina, you girls do more heavy lifting than us." Riddle comments.

"Don't help her, Tom. If she won't do her chores, she won't be a proper housewife." Anna warns.

"She's going to be a sphincter, an old maid. Best you let her do dishes." Paul supports, as he eats a biscuit covered in extra butter and filled with too much jam. Anna tends to indulge Paul with food.

"That's fine. If no one intends to marry her, she can always stay at my place." Tom replies.

"But what if you get married Tom? Will you still intend to spoil her?" The auburn haired freckled boy questions, gaining a hard shove on the ribs from Anna's elbow.

"I don't intend to marry a girl who does not tolerate Mina's peculiarities." Riddle comments, winking at me with his deep red eyes.

As I watch him do the dishes for me, I observe his overall gait and mannerisms with content.

Tom Riddle stands confidently, despite doing a woman's chore, his broad shoulders are straight along with his back. He has a calm composure, patiently taking his time to rinse out more dirty dishes that are piled on the second sink next to me. He hums a tune casually, content with his current situation.

The year is 1938. Ten years since Tom Riddle arrived in the orphanage.

Tom Riddle and I, are now fifteen years old.

Ten years ago, when I found him emaciated in the sick ward, I thought that he would die the next day. As soon as I promised him that I will never leave him, he lost consciousness. I shouted for help and when helped arrived, I quietly made my way out of the ward. I did not expect him to survive the night.

But the next morning, he was still alive. He managed to regain his strength enough to entertain visitors. I visited him regularly, making conversation while doing small things in order for the boy to be more comfortable in recovery. Eventually, after a few weeks, he was healthy enough to leave the ward.

He was reluctant at first, but after encouraging him and enabling constant interaction, the boy is able to communicate and socialize well with the fellow orphans. Slowly but surely, he was able to regain the same charming personality that he had before he learned that his father passed away from illness.

The boy has grown to be a calm mild-mannered young man, responsible to tasks given to him and sociable enough for everyone in the orphanage to know that he is morally upright towards others. All of our teachers find him to be an excellent student. Merida and Dorothy never raised their voice at him.

Apart from character, I have to admit that he is actually rather handsome.

He has straight black hair, silky but thick strands that tend to bother him if he lowers his head. His lashes are not long, but are just as thick as his head of hair, making his large eyes and maroon pupils more prominent. His face is mostly soft, but growing angular every day. His overall gait is awkward yet sturdy.

He looks like any typical healthy growing teenager in this generation.

I've grown to enjoy gazing at the boy from time to time.

His transformation is immaculately perfect.

Now, I can hope that his current character will retain for the rest of his life.

But hope is for failures. In order to maintain his current state of being, discipline must prevail.

"You two have been avoiding being adopted for years, but both of you can't avoid getting adopted. Eventually she's going to have a different family and so will you." Paul says, pointing at Tom.

"I won't let that happen." I tell the boy pointing at Riddle.

"There is no way both of you can avoid getting adopted. Tom will eventually find parents who will force him to leave and Mina might find parents who are kind enough to tolerate her tantrums."

"I don't know. The last time someone tried to adopt her, she kicked the man and his wife on the knees and then screamed and shouted at them until they decided not to adopt her." Anna recalls.

"You're right, Mina's a fighter. But I don't know how Tom avoids being adopted. He's practically an angel. And yet, when he goes to his final interview, the parents decide not to take him. How is it exactly that you managed to persuade parents that adopting you is not a good idea?" Paul asks.

"I tell them that I would not go with them willingly if they won't adopt Mina as well." Tom answers.

"Of course. And since Mina is such a darling, both of you continue to be orphans." Anna says, with a sigh. "How long do you intend to continue this charade? Do you not want to leave the orphanage?"

"We intend to be old enough to leave St. Agatha independently. Since Tom is a few months older than me, he will be my legal guardian and he can take me with him as soon as he turns eighteen." I tell our elaborate plan with confidence. Even in this century, eighteen years old are now considered adults.

"But Mina, I'll be leaving in three days with my new family. And Paul and Andrew are going to do well on their final interviews tomorrow. Don't you see? Both of you will be the only teenagers left."

"We'll be fine, Anne. You don't have to worry about us. We have a plan." I assure the girl.

"That plan better work. I don't want to see both of you working here until you're old and wrinkly." Paul comments.

"Speaking of getting adopted, remember how happy Arthur was when he got adopted the other day. The poor boy was crying tears of joy, and was holding on to his new mum like his life depended on it." The blonde girl informs. "Both of you can be happy too you know, I'm sure you would love families."

"Arthur wasn't crying because he was happy that he got adopted. He was happy to get out of here. I wouldn't describe his sobbing as tears of joy, more like tears of desperation." The boy finishing his breakfast says, laughing reluctantly after sipping tea.

I have to agree with Paul. Arthur was crying for another reason other than being adopted.

Ever since Thomas was adopted three weeks ago, Arthur was acting odd. He looked like he doesn't get enough sleep, and he spends a lot of time in the sick ward. I heard he was having frequent accidents, one of them involves falling on a flight of stairs. The accidents reduced, but he would have bruises.

These bruises would sometimes show on his face, scaring potential parents. Arthur tells us that he playfully brawls with the younger boys from time to time, but I never saw him wrestle with any of the kids. Eventually we stopped asking questions since he often brushes off our concern and just smiles.

His smile though, you could tell that he was faking his smile. Like Arthur was hiding something.

He wasn't the only boy who carries bruises and have sleepless nights. A lot of the boys, especially the older ones, tend to get bruises, some even have ugly scars and gashes. Most of the orphan males in St. Agatha do not talk about their injuries either, they weren't proud of how they got their injuries.

They weren't like typical boys who are proud of their scars.

Perhaps due to their situation as orphans, they have lower self-esteem.

Or maybe Arthur was dealing with something more sinister.

If I recall, Merida said something unusual to her husband when Tom arrived. Something about how boys shouldn't stay too long at St. Agatha. But she never did explain what it was, and I was not able to find out what that would be because I was too preoccupied with Riddle's condition at that time.

All I could get from that conversation is that she mentioned bruises and blood.

"There is blood dripping on the floor." Anna says, interrupting me from my thoughts.

"Oh, must be coming from the fish. I gutted the fish back when we were in the river." Paul explains.

"I'm happy for Arthur, he was able to get what he wanted in the end. That's the important thing." The blonde says as she cleans the fish blood with a rag. "It's too bad we can't see him now though, he was easy on the eyes." She says dreamily, most likely recalling how handsome Arthur was.

"I bet he wasn't so pretty when he was crying his eyes out when he got adopted." Paul comments out of jealousy. He always had a crush on Anna, but would not dare to tell her his feelings.

Arthur went on his knees and cried publicly, as soon as his new parents broke the news. He looked so relieved, so desperate that he was finally being taken out of the orphanage. When he gave us his final farewells, he was looking more of himself. His smile was more genuine. He was showing real emotions.

However, when it was Tom's turn to say goodbye to Arthur, his smile was replaced with fear and dread.

Arthur was trembling when he was shaking Tom's hand, his face looked like he was guilty for something he could have done to Tom. But Arthur never harmed Tom, to my knowledge. They get along most of the time, so Arthur's expression towards Riddle on his last day at St. Agatha, was rather strange.

"Ah yes, that reminds me. Tom, what did Arthur whispered to you back when you were saying goodbye?" Paul asks the raven haired boy who is now keeping the clean dishes at the dish drying rack.

"He told me to stay away from Father Morris." Riddle informs, with a shrug.

.

* * *

" _Killing Gaunt was easy, dealing with the consequences was difficult. I did not realize that the missing body of Morfin would trigger waves of loyal exasperation from his young followers. I assumed that the followers were all adolescent children who would eventually move on to another harmless peer fad."_

 _He goes to a cabinet and pulls an out volume of the Prophet. He then offers me the volume to identify Grindlewand and his followers who can be seen attacking the Ministry of Magic from the moving pictures under the newspaper headline which is entitled as: First Wizarding War by Grindlewand._

" _I underestimated Grindlewand, a mutual friend of both me and Gaunt. Like Morfin, he detested muggleborns and did not see how non-magical people should be treated as equals. He also had a similar experience with Gaunt, both of their parents were attacked and killed in the Muggle realm."_

" _That would mean, they have the same goal?" I inquired._

" _Gaunt simply wanted to enslave muggleborns, but Grindlewand passionately wanted complete annihilation of the muggle realm as well as procuring the elder wand which is the ultimate weapon to immortality and infinite power towards the fate of the world itself. Grindlewand was a true fatalist."_

 _He glares at the Prophet from his point of view, obviously repulsed at the man featured in the paper._

" _He had no class when dealing with Gaunt's remaining followers. No charm to avoid his own casualties. He took what he wanted by force, choosing to attain his leadership through the completion of the elder wand by prying from corpses and forcing people to follow and be loyal out of fear for their lives."_

" _Headmaster, how were you able to defeat Grindlewand?" I asked the question that million still wonder._

" _I defeated him with cold-hearted deceit. Like Gaunt, Grindlewand wanted me as an ally. Unlike Gaunt who would have spared my family, Grindlewand thought my sister was keeping me away from his cause. Apart from the future, the atonement for the death of my sister was my main motivation."_

 _He sighed, having trouble explaining the details to me._

" _Is Grindlewand dead?" I asked._

" _Yes. Yes he is. Propaganda convinced the majority that I had no direct responsibility of his death. Most of the wizarding population believed that Grindlewand was immortal, but is now too weak to do harm because of the damage that I have casted upon him. They wanted me to be a righteous hero."_

" _What did you do then? How did you kill Grindlewand?" I question._

" _In order to kill him, Grindlewand had to surrender the Elder Wand so as to be mortal once again. It was difficult to portray a trusting ally, but he was eventually convinced that I am trustworthy. So when he passed the Elder Wand to me, I killed him as soon as I was able to do so." Dumbledore explains._

 _I find his explanation incomplete, finding it hard to believe that Grindlewand would give up easily._

" _By the time I reached Grindlewand, he became a shell of his former self. The elder wand may be a powerful artefact. But if the wizard is not as resilient as the wand, then the wizard will eventually lose control of his own personal gain with that of his sanity. He was losing his control over the wand."_

 _He adjusted his glasses to rest on the bridge of his nose, showing discontent._

" _We might have won, but it was a challenging loss. When the First Wizarding War ended, there were more deaths than from my previous lifetime. Due to Grindlewand's eccentricity, the deaths were in millions and the destruction was limitless. In the end, his actions paved the way of his condemnation."_

" _So you mean to say, that killing Tom Riddle would not prevent the Second or Third Wizarding War? That instead of ending a murderer's intent to killing millions, ending the life of Riddle would just trigger or instigate the existence of another murderer who is just as brutal or even worst?"_

" _Correct, Miss Granger." He confirmed without hesitation._


End file.
